


Things We Do For Family

by swc18



Category: Prison Break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 147,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26955157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swc18/pseuds/swc18
Summary: "Your nose is bleeding." She pressed the gauze under his nose. "So…is this what Lincoln was talking about?" He looked at her but didn't answer. "Michael," she said sternly, "I need to know." He sighed, "Maybe."An alternate plot; what would happen if Michael's nosebleeds started while he was still at Fox River?
Relationships: Lincoln Burrows/Michael Scofield, Lincoln Burrows/Veronica Donovan, Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi, Veronica Donovan/Sara Tancredi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

Hello fellow Prison Breakers. This idea came to me and has turned into quite the story. I have a lot more of the story...finished? How about, written and needing to be reviewed, but I'll be publishing more soon! Reviews/comments/etc are always appreciated!

XXXXX

Sara stared at the gruesome abstract painting on the cement wall. Painted by Michael's hand that was mangled and bloody; curled into his chest as he lay on the floor.

A giant "X" was in the center with lines crossing each other in every direction. The room was dark; so small and stale that she could detect a slight metallic odor in the air.

She'd been worried something like this might happen from the moment he got thrown into solitary. Ever since the conversation she had with his former psychiatrist, she'd been observing him a bit more closely. Not that she was giving him preferential treatment, but she had to admit that her concern for him ran deeper than it did for the other inmates. His need to help people combined with a high IQ, an overactive mind, and now a criminal record made him quite the enigma to her.

Despite her watching him like a hawk, waiting for any tell-tale signs, something inside him must have snapped, and now here they were.

He hadn't moved an inch since she'd entered so she slowly moved towards him, approaching him as if he were a frightened animal.

"Michael, it's Sara," she spoke softly as she crouched next to him, "you're going to feel my hand on your wrist." She felt his pulse through her gloved hand, slow but steady. He didn't move.

"Come on, I need your eyes," she whispered as she lifted his chin and shone a flashlight into his vacant stare. His pupils reacted normally, but his expressionless face was unsettling. She clicked off the flashlight and stuck it in her coat pocket with a sigh, sitting down on a chair to start tending to his hand.

He was hunched over and started leaning to one side until his head rested on her knee. Her heart fluttered and broke simultaneously; she'd never seen him this vulnerable, without his normal charisma and charm.

But whatever it was that he was going through, she could relate. She knew darkness. She knew self-destructive behavior. And in that moment, aside from fixing his hand, she felt utterly useless. One person can't just "fix" another; bring them out of an undesirable mental state with the wave of a hand.

Sighing, she reached over and patted his back to offer the small comfort of human contact, hoping it would be enough, but knowing it wasn't.

"It's ok…you're gonna be ok," she repeated several times, feeling the warmth of his back beneath her hand.

She let his head rest on her knee for a while as she cleaned and bandaged his hand. The cleaning part took quite a while; he'd done quite a number on his knuckles. So worked slow and steady, careful to keep all of her movements as soothing and gentle as possible. His head was heavy against her leg, the short stubble of his hair poking her through her slacks, but she didn't mind. He stayed motionless as she worked, not even reacting to the disinfectant she used to clean his wounds.

Once the bandage was secure, she gently slid a hand under his head, the other cupping his chin and removed it from her lap. He slowly leaned even further to the side until he came to rest on the floor, his hand raised slightly off the ground, but curled towards his chest.

She slung her bag of supplies over her shoulder and walked to the guard waiting for her by the door.

"So?" he asked her.

She sighed. "Uh, we're going to have to get him to psych ward for an evaluation. I'm sure they'll want to keep him there for observation." He gave her a nod in response.

"Sara," she heard a low, familiar voice from down the hall. The sound of her name echoed in the small space as she looked at the guard, raising her eyebrows, silently asking for permission. He shrugged as if to say, "It's up to you". She turned and walked down to where Lincoln was being held.

"Lincoln," she addressed him through the slit in the door, putting her hands in her pockets.

"Is my brother ok?"

"Yea, he's gonna be fine." She shuffled her feet, "Uh, physically he's ok…mentally…I don't know, Lincoln. I've never seen him like this before, have you?"

He paused a moment, "No."

"Does he have a history of black outs? Anything like that?"

Lincoln hesitated. She bent slightly at the hips to see through the slot, into his eyes. He was clearly trying to avoid her gaze- his eyes alternating between the floor, and looking up to the side, like he was debating whether or not to share something.

"Lincoln," she scolded in a mother-like tone, "anything can help. Is there anything I should know?"

He slowly but finally made eye contact before asking, "Was he bleeding?"

His question confused her, "His…his hand was, he'd been punching the wall but that's it. Why?"

"Thanks doc."

"Right." She said with an eye roll as she looked back towards Michael's cell. Lincoln was a man of few words and he was obviously done talking. She pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear and turned around to walk back to the infirmary.


	2. Chapter 2

Was he bleeding?

That question from Lincoln was still on her mind. It was late, and she should be at home…or somewhere besides work. Katie was always playfully nagging her to get out more, but Lincoln's question was vexing her, and she knew that sleep was out of the question. So here she was, at her desk, battling her gnawing stomach that had long since given up on being fed some dinner.

Why would he ask that? That phrasing. Maybe he'd heard Michael punching the wall? But if he had then of course he'd know that Michael was bleeding.

Did Michael have hemophilia? Some other clotting disorder she didn't know about? No, that would be in his record.

She clicked her pen repeatedly and chewed on her lower lip. She leaned back in her desk chair, hearing the familiar squeak when it reached a certain point, and stared from her infirmary office into the vacant white hallway. The lights were far too bright out there, the walls too white. It hurt her eyes but she didn't have anything else to look at, so she settled on squinting a bit while she kept thinking.

She hadn't wanted to send Michael to the psych ward. Doing so felt like admitting defeat; she hadn't been able to help him, although she knew she shouldn't be too hard on herself. Psychotic breaks weren't her specialty. Her limited knowledge of psychology was just useful enough to recognize when someone was struggling, but not useful enough to really help them. If she'd known she would have ended up working in a prison, she definitely would have elected to take some more courses on it in college.

She sighed. Too late for that, but at least she knew there were people working in the psych ward to keep an eye on him 24/7, and that brought her some peace of mind.

Was he bleeding?

She sat forward again at her desk as her mind started combing through all the possible disorders, even though she knew it was useless without more information. Bleeding from where? She pulled out his file and began skimming. She'd looked it over when he first came to Fox River, but a refresher couldn't hurt. Maybe she missed something the first time.

XXXXX

Michael had asked to see her. She rarely visited the psych ward but was more than willing to make a trip for him; he'd been on her mind even more than usual lately.

She'd been missing his usual visits to the infirmary. There was a familiarity in the routine, seeing him daily for his insulin shots. Not having him coming in and out made it feel like her day was somehow "off". Like she was missing something…because she was. Well, someone, but still.

She'd asked Bellick how he was doing, but didn't trust his dismissive, "He's fine doc," and wanted to see for herself that he was okay. She was happy to hear that Michael had requested to see her, saving her from having to come up with an excuse to visit.

She entered the psych ward and made her way to Michael's cell. He was standing there, wearing the all-white whack-shack issued uniform. She took in his appearance, realizing how strange it was not seeing him in his prison blues. After her eyes lingered a moment, she decided she liked him better in his usual uniform, the dark navy that made the icy blue of his eyes stand out even more.

"Hello Sara," He sounded like his usual self. The polite, soft spoken man he'd been since day one at Fox River. His voice and posture gave no indication of what happened a few days ago.

"Hi," she replied simply.

"Please, have a seat" he gestured towards his bed. She smiled a little, there's that endearing politeness again; making sure she was as comfortable as she possibly could be in a prison cell.

"Thanks," she replied as she sat down and slung her bag off her shoulder. He sat down next to her, keeping a respectful distance between them.

"I made something for you," He began.

She tilted her head, intrigued, "You did?"

Her mind flashed back to the origami rose he'd made her. The one she still had in her office.

He bent over and reached past the end of the bed. He came back up and handed her a ceramic object that took her mind a moment to register. She didn't say anything.

"It's an ash tray," he said.

"I uh, I don't smoke," she said like a question.

He smiled, "No I know, but uh, it was either that or jewelry and you don't seem like the macaroni necklace type."

She chuckled, "That's very sweet."

Despite the nice gesture and not wanting to ruin the moment, she had to know how he was doing, that's why she was there after all.

She seamlessly switched to her doctor persona and asked, "How about we talk about how you're doing." Her eyes locked onto his face, searching for a reaction, a flicker of truth before he smooth-talked his way out of reality.

He met her gaze, "Well, I don't remember much about that night, but I think we both know I don't belong here."

She nodded, "And the doctors do say you've been acting normal. But Michael, can I ask you a question?"

She didn't know how to begin. She was grateful to still have the ashtray in her hand, something to fidget with. She leaned forward on the bed to rest her forearms on her knees, her hair hanging partially in front of her face as she looked over at him.

"I spoke with Lincoln after I left your cell that night. He called me over, wanting to make sure you were ok. I told him you'd be fine, and he uh, he asked me if you were bleeding?"

She held his gaze, searching for a reaction and was met with the serious face he always made when he was thinking. A tiny furrow between his brows, his eyes cool and secretive, but she could see the wheels turning behind them.

He remained silent, so she continued, "I told him about your hand, but I felt like he meant something else by it. Michael, I don't mean to overstep, but I am your doctor. If there's something about you that could be important for your care, I need to know."

His expression didn't change.

He spoke slowly, "I don't know why my brother asked that. I'm sure he was just worried and wanted to make sure I'd be ok."

She wasn't buying it, but she knew that when Michael didn't want to tell her something, there was no winning that battle. Like the time he injured his eye, "Catching an elbow during a basketball game." Yea right.

He was so hard to read; always wearing some sort of a mask, like there was a whole other side to him that she didn't even begin to understand. But she wanted to.

"Mmm," Was all she could reply, looking down at her hands.

"I'd really just like to get back normal and return to gen pop."

Sara nodded her head, not surprised by his response.

"Ok then, let's get you back."


	3. Chapter 3

He hated lying to Sara. She sounded defeated the night before when he'd dismissed any legitimacy to the, "Were you bleeding?" question, but there was no sense in worrying her with his nose bleeds. Not when in a few weeks' time he'd be out of the country.

It was mid-morning now, and Michael came into the infirmary for his insulin shot as usual. It was a clear winter day and the sun shone brightly through the window, reflecting off the fresh layer of snow on the ground. He really missed windows, he realized. His apartment had a whole wall of them, overlooking the city. The view had always calmed him; he'd take a break from his work and walk over to them, standing with his arms crossed and just watch the city. But here? Aside from yard time the only thing he had to look at were walls, metal bars, and other inmates. And in this case, Sara. That view was his favorite.

She administered his shot, and then went to work on cleaning and re-bandaging his hand, which was still healing from that night. It was stiff and swollen, but he really didn't notice it much, not with everything on his mind.

He sat bent over, his forearm was resting on his knee, with his injured hand outstretched and watched as she worked, meticulously unwrapping the bandage and assessing the damage. She stood close next to him, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her, warming the small space between them.

She leaned forward to get a better look, and a strand of her auburn hair freed itself from behind her ear, brushing against the skin on his arm. Its touch was feather-light, but sent a jolt through his system so forceful he nearly jumped. He hoped she wouldn't notice and leave it there, but she quickly reached up and tucked it behind her ear.

"Sorry," she murmured, still deep in thought, analyzing his hand.

"No worries," he said with a small smile, relieved she hadn't noticed his reaction. He willed his heart to stop beating so wildly in his chest.

"How's it feeling?"

"Not too bad," he replied, happy for a distraction from his anxious energy.

"Able to move it ok?"

He paused for a moment, "It's a little stiff, but yea I can still move it ok."

She nodded and tossed the old bandage away.

She grabbed a new one and wrapped it carefully around his hand, secure but not too tight. She had him move his hand around and checked from every angle. Satisfied with her work, she started taking off a glove but stopped.

"Michael," she started, her brows furrowing as she reached for some more gauze.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"Your nose is bleeding." She pressed the gauze under his nose.

He reached up and held his hand over hers for a moment, and then took the gauze fully as she grabbed more.

He couldn't help but look down, shrinking away from the truth he'd been so desperate to hide. The truth that was now out in the open. She was smart; he didn't need to see her face to know that she was putting the pieces together.

"Michael, chin up," she lifted his head swiftly, "gotta stop the blood from flowing as best we can."

He sat there with his head tilted back and bloody gauze on his face, but that didn't stop Sara from addressing the elephant that was now in the room. It would have bothered him if it was anyone else, but he kind of liked that she was direct.

"So…is this what Lincoln was talking about?"

He looked at her but didn't answer.

"Michael," she said sternly, "I need to know."

He sighed, "Maybe."

"Has this happened before?"

"Having a nosebleed? Yea, I mean, don't most people get them sometimes?"

She crossed her arms, "Sure, but most people don't look as guilty as you do right now when it happens. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't want you to worry."

"Michael," she rolled her eyes, "I'm your doctor. You can't withhold information that's relevant to your health to spare my feelings."

His eyes twinkled, "I didn't know you had feelings for me that needed to be spared."

That earned another eye roll along with a hint of a smile, "You know what I mean. Spit it out Michael. The truth. Or God help me I'll send you to the nearest hospital and have them run every test I can think of."

"That's not necessary."

"It's not your call."

He remained silent; they were officially in a stand-off.

"Alright then, you're going to the hospital," she declared in a tone that left no room for argument.

He sat there silently, knowing he couldn't weasel his way out of this one. His only hope was that he'd be back soon and able to continue working on his plan. There's no way he'd let a nose bleed prevent him from saving Lincoln.

She looked back at him and her face softened, watching him obediently holding the now blood-soaked gauze to his face. She used her gloved hands to take it from him and tossed it, checking to make sure the bleeding had stopped. It had.

She went to the sink and got a wet paper towel, offering it to him to wipe off his face. He took it and used it, then looked up at her, feeling defeated.

She sighed and said softly, "It'll just be a few scans and some bloodwork," then she smirked, "you'll be back in your cell before you know it."

That earned a small chuckle, "I can't wait."

XXXXX

As promised, that afternoon Bellick showed up to transport him to the hospital.

"Alright Scofield, you're comin with me," he said with a snarl, which was apparently his favorite facial expression.

Sucre shot him a confused look from the bunk. Michael hadn't mentioned anything to him about the nosebleeds or the testing he needed to get done, and he wasn't exactly sure why. Probably because talking about things always made them seem more real, and he really didn't want this to be real.

"I won't be gone long," He reassured him.

Sucre nodded in response but still had a questioning look in his eyes.

Bellick cuffed him behind his back with unnecessary force, and grabbed him by the arm. They made their way outside, Michael enjoying the warmth of the sun for a brief moment until they got to a prisoner transport van.

"Get in," Bellick demanded.

"Sure thing boss," he took his place in one of the back seats, quite uncomfortably, considering his hands were still cuffed behind his back.

The van engine roared to life as they rolled down the gravel and past the gates of Fox River. For any other circumstances, he would have been happy for the change of scenery; watching the trees whizzing by the window, hearing the calming white noise of the van on the road, but this was different.

He didn't want to go to the hospital at all, but Sara was adamant that they rule out anything serious, which, he supposed, was something that really spoke to her character. Any other prison doctor would have just dismissed it, said, "It's just a nosebleed" and left it alone.

"But not Sara." He thought with a small smile and shake of his head. He couldn't help but admire how much she advocated for her patients, especially considering who her patients were.

Sure, he probably could have said no to further testing, but he didn't even bother to ask. If he'd flat out refused, there's no way she would have gone down without a fight. He could picture it, every day for his insulin visits she'd be asking him endless questions about any symptoms he might have been having, slowly, relentlessly working to persuade him to get checked out. He imagined she could be quite persuasive.

It was probably easier to just get it over with, hope that nothing was wrong, and move on. Plus, her flat-out insisting that he get checked out meant that she actually cared, right? Having someone genuinely care about his well-being was rare, and it was nice; something he wanted to hold onto despite the circumstances.

But that didn't stop the nervous churning of his stomach. If it was truly up to him, as in-no Sara involved, he'd rather keep his head in the sand and not know if the nosebleeds were an indication that he was headed down the same path as his mom. It terrified him. Though he had been too young to really remember, he knew what it had done to Lincoln, watching her die from a brain tumor like that.

He sighed. Lincoln was now just over a week away from his execution. The thought caused a rush of anxiety to come over him. He had to get him out of Fox River; and he'd be damned if the same thing that took their mother prevented him from doing that.

He leaned his head back and tried to rationalize with his over-active mind, "No point in worrying about it now". People get nosebleeds for all kinds of reasons, doesn't mean anything.

XXXXX

The visit to the hospital was only a few hours, and he was back in his cell in no time, just like Sara had promised. It had been strange being around other doctors and nurses. They all seemed a bit, well, scared of him, and that upset him more than he'd anticipated. He understood, but they didn't know him, the real him; they just saw him as a prisoner, plain and simple. He realized now that Sara was the one doctor who saw more than that, who saw them as individuals...as people.

He could feel the dull throbbing of a headache coming on, which seemed to be happening more and more often lately, but he brushed it off as stress. He had a lot to be stressed about these days.

"So what was all that about?" Sucre asked as Michael stood at the edge of their cell, looking out.

"Just a few routine tests," he said dismissively.

"Tests that they couldn't do here?" he asked from the top bunk, "doesn't sound very routine."

Michael paused, "It's nothing to worry about, and it doesn't change any plans."

He hoped it wouldn't anyways. He wasn't naive-he knew his mother's medical history and how it mirrored his own. The headaches as a child, disappearing and then coming back in your thirties...but the details were fuzzy. He'd been quite young when she went downhill. How long had she even been sick for? He really couldn't remember...weeks? Months? Time goes by so much slower when you're a kid, what he might remember as a month could have only been a week.

But no matter, the execution was a week away, he was certain of that. Even if it was something serious, what're the odds they'd need to treat him within the next week? He was fine. Just a few headaches.

"I'm not worried about the plans," Sucre said with exasperation, "if something's wrong you can tell me."

A small smile appeared on Michael's face, he was definitely lucky with who he got stuck in a cell with, "Thanks, but we don't really know anything yet, so for now, I'd rather not worry."

Sucre nodded.

Bellick appeared in front of their cell, "Well if it ain't your lucky day, Scofield, you got a visitor."

Michael looked at Sucre, confusion in both of their eyes.

Michael nodded and followed Bellick out and to the visitation room, wondering who it could be.

He hadn't had a visitor since coming to Fox River. Who would visit him anyways? His father had left when they were young, his mother was dead, his only brother was in prison with him, and he didn't have a significant other. He'd had a few friends and friendly colleagues, but no one who would go out of their way to come visit him now.

He scanned the room and saw a familiar brunette figure waiting for him, seated at one of the tables. Ah, of course, the one person on the outside who still cared about he and Lincoln.

Slowly making his way to the table, he sat down opposite her, "Hi Veronica," he greeted quietly.

He was happy to see her but felt a little uneasy; she was upset with him and had been since he was sentenced; frustrated that he was at Fox River in the first place, for not advocating for himself during his trial, for "screwing up his life" like that to try to save Lincoln. Illegally.

She didn't know the details of his plan, but if she did, he knew she wouldn't approve. At her core, she was all about nobility and justice, qualities he rather liked about her, and qualities that helped balance out Lincoln's wilder side when they'd been together. She took pride in doing things the right way; she wanted to free Lincoln by finding solid evidence and following the paths of the judicial system. But Michael didn't trust that. He used to, but now, after seeing how far the truth was buried beneath the secrets and lies surrounding Terrence Steadman, he had a hard time with trust.

He knew they both wanted the same outcome but had very different methods, and she was good at shooting disapproving glares his way to make sure he knew it. He kept his head lowered in an act of self-defense.

To his relief, her green eyes darted to his bandaged hand and she gestured to it, "What happened?"

"Oh, nothing," he said dismissively.

"It's always nothing," she said with a shake of her head and paused, "are you ok?"

"I'm doing alright."

She nodded, knowing she wasn't going to get more of an answer out of him, "I found something, something that might help Lincoln."

Michael waited for her to continue.

"I talked to a guy down at the morgue and asked them to look into the report from when Steadman's body was examined. They found a discrepancy between the autopsy report and Steadman's medical records."

"What was it?"

"In the autopsy report, his appendix was present. According to his surgical history, he had an appendectomy when he was twelve years old."

Michael considered this revelation, "Even if that's true, and the body wasn't Steadman's, do you really think the people behind this will allow you to prove that in court? Given how far they've gone to cover this up, I'm guessing they won't go down without a fight. Paperwork and evidence are so easy to lose."

"Michael this is the proof. I'm talking to the judge today to see if we can get approval to exhume the body. If it's not Steadman, Lincoln is a free man."

She was obviously excited and hopeful, her eyes twinkling, but he still wasn't convinced. He appreciated what she was trying to do, but that didn't mean that he was about to quit on his plan.

"I hope it all works out," was all he could offer. He wasn't convinced, plain and simple.

Veronica looked confused, "I thought you'd be happier. Michael, this is great news, it's the kind of evidence we've been waiting for."

He shrugged in response.

She persisted, "Lincoln is set to die soon, I have the possibility of solid proof to set him free...why don't you seem to care?"

"I do care, I just don't trust the system like I used to."

"Well as far as I can tell, there isn't really another option. This is the chance we have, and I'm going to take it," she sighed, "I don't know what you're doing here Michael, I really don't. And once Lincoln is free, I'm petitioning for you to get sent to a lesser facility. There's no reason for you to be here with a bunch of murderers and mob bosses."

"I guess," he replied. Knowing that once Lincoln is free, he would be too, so it didn't matter anyways.

She stood up to leave, but not before shaking her head and adding with a wink, "Have a little faith, Michael."


	4. Chapter 4

"Infirmary," Sara answered the phone.

"Hey doc," it was Bellick, "just letting you know Scofield is back from the hospital."

Huh. She didn't even know they'd taken him already. I mean, that's what she'd told them to do, but she never got confirmation or updates until now.

"Ok, thanks, appreciate it," she hung up and took a deep breath.

She grabbed a pen as she sat down at her desk and began clicking it nervously. She'd been waiting all day for an update. She hated that she couldn't go with him; that fact nagged at her and kept Michael solidly at the front of her mind all day, wondering where he was at each moment, if they'd found anything yet.

She'd busied herself as best she could, tending to other patients, working on the never-ending stack of paperwork on the corner of her desk, but it was hard to focus. Now it was even worse-knowing that he had gone and was back...his results should be in any minute. She glanced over at the fax machine, resting peacefully, and willed it to blink to life.

Well, she reassured herself, at least he hadn't backed out- she'd been worried about that, and metaphorically retracted her claws knowing that he'd gone. If he hadn't, there'd be hell to pay...because she cared, she clarified in her mind. Sure, she couldn't technically force him into testing he didn't want done, but she could be much more persuasive if needed. Thankfully that wouldn't be necessary, and she took comfort in the fact that he did actually go to the hospital.

She chewed on her bottom lip, not wanting to commit to another task but unable to justify doing nothing. She grabbed the top file on her stack of papers and opened it.

She'd gotten about two lines filled out when the fax machine revved to life, "Oh thank God," she mumbled to herself, tossing the file back onto the stack and grabbing the fax as soon as it printed.

She started scanning the results, not reading the report in detail but looking for key words; she needed to know if this was serious or not.

The first page was all the normal stuff-height, weight, blood pressure, blah, blah, blah. His blood pressure was a little high, but then again, he really hadn't wanted to go to the hospital and was probably on edge. She waved it off for now and kept reading.

Halfway down the second page she saw it and froze: a hypothalamic hamartoma. A brain tumor. Her heart sank in her chest. Everything around her slowed down as her mind scrambled to process the rest of the information on the page, but it was no use. The fax machine spat out a few more pages but she didn't care. Michael has a brain tumor. The man she cared about more than she'd like to admit.

She leaned back and ran a hand through her hair, letting it sink in. The diagnosis had certainly burst her bubble; the ignorant bubble of bliss she'd worked so hard to build, hoping so strongly that it was nothing. It was a nosebleed, right? Probably nothing, but Lincoln's concern combined with his family history led her to believe it wasn't so harmless after all. Damnit, she'd wanted to be wrong.

It wasn't long before her mind started rationalizing, searching for a silver lining-as far as brain tumors go, this isn't a bad one. It's not cancer, doesn't grow quickly and may never be a serious problem. But still…

How was she supposed to tell him? Sure, she'd delivered bad news too many times to count. That's part of being a doctor, right? But this was Michael; a good man who is currently in prison and dealing with the fact that his brother was about to be killed. That's a lot for anyone to bear no matter how calm he always seemed, and to deliver news like this now seemed like a cruel joke.

She looked over at the clock that read 9pm. Katie was right, she really did need to get a life.

She had to tell Michael tomorrow. But how? Normally, delivering news like this to a patient warranted some level of comforting; a touch on the arm, a hand on the back...but she wasn't even supposed to do that. They'd flat out told her when she had interviewed for the job that any contact besides what is absolutely necessary for treating patients was prohibited.

She might have to break the rules.

She wanted to comfort him; he was basically alone here, right? She couldn't just deliver news like that and then say, "Ok, bye, back to your cell now." It's not like Sucre would give him a big hug and offer a shoulder to cry on. Sucre was a nice enough guy, but come on, and even if he did, Michael would deny it. No one willingly showed weakness or vulnerability in gen pop, not even when they're diagnosed with a tumor.

But she wanted him to be able to be vulnerable with her. To be upset and let his walls come down, even for a while. Hell, she'd clear her schedule for the whole day if that's how much time he needed.

He could act tough with the other inmates, that's fine, but if he needed comfort, she wanted him to know he could get that from her.

She sighed, leaning forward again and staring at the paperwork in front of her, the words, "hypothalamic hamartoma" glaring back at her. She scowled and stuffed the pages into a manila file, as if hiding them would make it go away.

Tomorrow was really going to suck.

She already knew in her heart that she wouldn't be able to keep a professional distance with him, this was too big.

The night he destroyed his hand had been bad enough, his head resting on her knee, hunched over in the most defeated looking posture. That was the most real and vulnerable contact they'd had. A mentally out-of-it Michael leaning his head against her knee, her hand on his back.

Whoops, guess I broke the rule there too, she realized. She shook her head, she couldn't not offer comfort. He was a human being.

And what would they do if she put an arm around him, fire her? She smirked at the thought. When she'd applied at Fox River she was the sole applicant and they'd been without a doctor for months. She knew that thinking like that wasn't professional, but she couldn't help it, her latent rebellious streak rearing its head. But at least it was rebellion in the name of humanity, of being a shoulder to cry on for someone in need.

Determined to do whatever was necessary in the morning, she turned off the lights, locked the infirmary door, and headed home, knowing full well that a certain inmate was going to occupy her thoughts the rest of the night.

XXXXX

Michael entered the infirmary. His hands were in his pockets, and he greeted Sara with a simple, "Hello".

He'd tried not to worry about whatever the test results may be. Getting Lincoln out, that was the priority, but he did feel a bit nervous. He didn't even know if the results would be back yet, so entering the infirmary felt like playing Russian roulette. Routine insulin shot? Terrible news? Good news? Only one way to find out.

He stood by the table as Sara stuck her head out of the infirmary door and into the hallway, asking Katie and the guard to, "Please give us a minute, I'll call if I need anything."

He realized right away that something was different about her-she was wearing a lavender V-neck shirt with gray slacks. He'd only ever seen her in various shades of gray and navy…looking at her now, he quickly decided that purple was his favorite color on her.

She had a manila file in her hand and kept it turned away from him, guarding it. That wasn't a good sign. Her hair hung down her back in a loose braid with a few free strands framing her face. She looked tired; like she'd spent the night at Fox River. Michael wondered sometimes if she actually did that – it seemed like whenever there was an emergency, was always around…maybe she had a mattress hidden in her office somewhere, he thought with a smirk, but then shoved that amusing notion to the back of his mind.

She shut the door and gestured to the table, "Please sit down."

Her voice was gentle, more so than normal. Usually her words were quick and professional, never minced, and offered little room for misinterpretation. She was straight forward, and he liked that about her, but something in her tone was different now.

He quietly obliged as she put the privacy curtain up and looked at the manila folder in her hand. She paused for a moment and then tossed it on the table next to him, as if deciding she didn't need it. She took a step closer, so she was directly in front of him.

"May I?" she asked as she reached for his hand. He half expected her to pull an alcohol pad from thin air and stick his arm with insulin, but instead, she took his hand in hers, and placed her other hand on top of his.

His breath caught in his throat, afraid that if he moved a muscle she'd somehow vanish, the moment poofing away in a cloud of smoke. He forced a deep breath and reveled in it; the softness and warmth of her un-gloved skin against his, the compassion. She obviously had bad news, but he couldn't bring himself to care anymore; he just wanted to remain in this blissfully ignorant state for as long as possible.

She cleared her throat, "So I uh, I have your test results."

He'd figured as much and didn't say anything in response. He was too absorbed by the sensation of her hands around his.

She paused before continuing, "You have a hypothalamic hamartoma. It's a brain tumor that you were most likely born with. It isn't very big, and it isn't cancer so there's no danger of it spreading."

He couldn't bring himself to respond. The words "hypothalamic hamartoma" rang a very faint yet unnerving bell in the back of his mind. His mom had always just been, "sick," and that's how he remembered it-not a specific diagnosis, but those words definitely rang a bell.

At his lack of verbal response, she continued, "Michael, I need to know if you've been having any symptoms other than the nosebleeds. Any changes in vision, headaches, motor control problems, anything like that?"

His mind was still absorbing all the information, it took him a moment to realize she'd asked a question. He thought about his headache the other day.

"Uh…no?"

"Michael," she said sternly, not buying his lame attempt at denial.

"I've had some headaches lately."

Her brows furrowed, "How often?"

"Uh," he hadn't really kept track, "I guess every other day or so."

"Describe them."

He paused, trying to process all the information playing pinball in his mind, making it impossible to find the right words, "Uh…"

"Dull, achy, stabbing, throbbing?" she supplied.

"I guess they usually start out stabbing in the front, then throbbing."

"Ok, well if it ever gets bad you know you can ask to come here, and I can give you something for it. But if anything with the headaches ever change or if you develop new symptoms, I need you to let me know. For now, there isn't really any treatment required. These types of tumors don't usually grow quickly, and surgery isn't necessary until…well, if it starts causing other problems."

No treatment means he didn't have to leave Fox River for a hospital stay. His plan was still intact. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and he got a mischievous look in his eyes, "So you're saying…no more field trips to the hospital?"

She chuckled, "Nope, you get to stay here instead. Never thought someone would be happy to hear me say that." She looked down, still smiling, noticing that his thumb was brushing back and forth over hers. He didn't even realize he was doing that until she noticed. He stopped out of fear that he'd crossed a line and looked up at her, trying to gauge her reaction.

Her smile faded, but she didn't look offended or indignant, she looked sad.

When she finally spoke again it was barely more than a whisper, "So…are you ok? Do you have any questions?" her eyes searching his, not believing that he was taking this so well.

He looked down at their hands together, heard the concern in her voice, and felt a stab of guilt. His scheme of getting closer to her "for the sake of the mission" seemed downright shallow. He had deliberately planned to use her, and she'd done nothing but care for him.

"Michael?" she asked softly.

He looked back up at her, taking in every detail; the soft strands of hair framing her face, the flush in her cheeks, the kindness of her eyes.

His voice was thick, "Yea, I'm ok."

She nodded, but then looked confused, "I'm sorry I just, I don't get how you can be taking this so well."

He paused to consider, "I guess," he said slowly, trying to put a finger on it himself, "I guess, having a tumor isn't the biggest concern I have right now."

She nodded in understanding, "Lincoln."

"Right."

Lincoln was down to his last week. Even if Michael's tumor decided to take his life, it wouldn't be within a week, so it was only logical that Lincoln had to be the priority. That and Michael's self-sacrificing nature. If he was being honest with himself, even if the tumor would kill him in a week, he'd still do everything he could to get Lincoln out first.

"Mmm," she mumbled, looking to the floor.

"Hey," he said gently, trying to lighten the mood, "I'm gonna be alright. Could be a lot worse, right?"

She looked up and he saw the worry still written all over her face. His stomach dropped with the realization that she'd been carrying the burden alone, the burden of worrying about him the same way he worried about Lincoln. It was a tough cross to bear.

To him, this whole tumor thing was a bump in the road, a scary yet slight inconvenience to the bigger scheme at play. He had to get Lincoln out and worry about himself later. To her…this is what she did-it was her way of helping people and seemed to give her a real sense of purpose. His focus on the escape meant that he hadn't bothered to think about or notice the impact that this was having on her.

He mentally kicked himself. Repeatedly.

"Sara," he whispered, looking over to make sure the privacy curtain was still doing its job, "can I?"

He slowly stood up and put his hands around her waist, allowing her the time to react and retreat if she wanted, but she sunk into his arms without protest, and wrapped her arms around him in return.

Her head came up to his collar bone and she rested it there; he let himself feel the warm weight of her head against him and cradled it to his chest, running his fingers through her soft hair, feeling the loose strands brush against his cheek.

"Sara, I'm going to be fine," he assured, still running his fingers over her hair, "It's ok, I'm not going anywhere."

His heart sank when he realized the falseness of what he just said. He'd be gone in a week and possibly never see her again. That thought alone was enough to make him feel sick; worse than hearing he had a brain tumor. How could he involve her in this? Was it too late to back out? "Just kidding, I don't have diabetes and won't be needing your services anymore."?

The gravity of what he'd done hit him with full force; he'd "pretended" to get close to her without realizing that his feelings would become genuine and that she'd return them. He made a mess of things, and she would be the one forced to clean it up after he left.

He sighed as she pulled away slightly and looked up at him with soft brown eyes.

"I know I just," she let out a frustrated sigh, "I was so worried when I saw the results and I didn't want to tell you, not with it being so close to…" she looked to the side and bit her lip. Michael knew she was referring to Lincoln's execution. It was so soon, and she was probably worried that the diagnosis would be the thing that pushed Michael over the edge.

"I know," he replied, "but it'll all be ok."

"How can you be so sure?"

He paused for a moment and shrugged, "I choose to have faith."

She considered this and nodded, "Well, I uh, I want you to know how sorry I am about Lincoln. And this. And, if you ever need someone here to talk to in here, just know that you're not alone."

Having her wrapped in his arms made her words seem so much more real. He wasn't alone. She wanted to be there for him through all of this.

"I appreciate that." He replied. More than you know.

XXXXX

Michael was all sorts of confused. He was back in his cell now sitting on the bottom bunk, his mind still reeling from his eventful morning. He had a brain tumor. Sara genuinely cares about him, and more than in a professional sense…right? He still had a hard time believing that; it seemed too good to be true. Lincoln is still set to be executed. The escape plan was still a go. His mind bounced back and forth, back and forth, unable to settle on any one notion. How was he supposed to feel? To make sense of it all?

"You ok, Papi?" Sucre asked.

Michael snapped out of his trance, "Yea...sure."

"I may not be a genius, but I can tell when you're lying you know."

Michael sighed, "Just a small bump in the road is all."

"A problem with the plan?"

"Not exactly. Look, the less you-"

"-the less I know the better, yea, I know."

"It's for the best," Michael reassured.

He felt a headache coming on again. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sat on the edge of the bed, closing his eyes and willing it to go away.

Sucre stood by the cell door looking out, his hands in his pockets, fidgeting, "We're still getting out through the infirmary, right? Is that why you need extra time there? You faking some kind of problem?"

That sounded like as reasonable an excuse as any, so Michael leapt on it, "Yea, something like that. We've still got to get the keys, but I've got someone on that."

"Another bump and swipe on the guards?"

"No, only the medical staff have keys to the infirmary."

"So…?"

"So, we need to ask our friend for another favor."

Sucre met his eyes with understanding. Tweener.

XXXXX

"Hey," Michael greeted David "Tweener" Apolskis as he walked towards him in the yard. Michael reached up and pulled his beanie tighter onto his head and over his ears. It was another cold one.

"Sup man," he replied, making a gangster gesture that Michael would never understand. He never wanted to.

"I need another favor."

"What kind of favor?"

"Another bump and swipe like you did on the guard."

His eyes went dark and he scoffed, "Yea, that last one did me a lot a good," he said sarcastically, "they stuck me in a cell with Avocado, so if you want something glommed, I need something in return."

"Like what?" Michael asked slowly. The guest list for the escape was already growing way too fast for his liking. It was taking far more people than he'd hoped, and every person added was another liability as far as he was concerned. The more the merrier didn't apply to prison escapes.

Tweener scowled, glaring in Avocado's direction, "Kill the son of a bitch."

Michael's expression didn't change, "That's not something I can do."

"Then you're gonna have to figure out something else," he replied and turned to walk away.

"Wait-," Michael reached a hand out to grab his elbow and Tweener paused. A guard looked in their direction, so Michael lowered his arm and put his hands in his pockets, not wanting to draw any more attention.

"I need to know if I can trust you," he said in a low voice.

"I'm as straight up as they come."

Michael looked him in the eyes and decided that he seemed to be telling the truth. He didn't have any other viable option anyways. Sure, he saw Sara every day and had access, but didn't trust his skills, or lack-there-of, to grab the keys without her noticing. He'd considered somehow managing to get another hug from her, and grabbing the keys then, but couldn't bring himself to do it. It felt so manipulative and shallow- he just...he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"I need to really trust you, so here's the deal. You do the bump and swipe for me, and I promise, you won't be in a cell with Avocado anymore."

Tweener wouldn't be in a cell at all anymore, but Michael decided to forgo that detail for now. He couldn't risk blowing the whole escape if Tweener decided to rat them out.

Tweener nodded reluctantly in agreement, "So what do I gotta steal?"

"Keys to the infirmary. From Sara. It's the orange key she keeps in her white coat pocket."

His eyes started to twinkle, "Oh hell, from a pocket? Simple enough. I need a reason to go to the infirmary though."

"Make something up."

He smiled again, "Aight, gonna have to get whimsical on this one."

"We need that key as soon as possible." Michael said sternly, he needed to understand how important this was.

"Chill man I'll get your key. Tonight."

"Looking forward to it."

Tweener backed up and walked away, the fresh snow crunching beneath his feet, leaving Michael to wander off to where Sucre was leaning up against the fence. He realized as he was walking over that there was a strange tingling sensation in his hands. Maybe he needed to up his dose on the Pugnac. Sara did say that too much insulin could cause tingling sensations. Maybe it was the cold weather. Maybe it was the tumor. He dismissed that thought immediately.

"So?" Sucre asked nervously.

"He's in."

"In on the escape or just the key?"

"Both, he just doesn't know about the escaping part yet."

"So, what do we do now?"

"We wait. He'll get it to us tonight."


	5. Chapter 5

Sara's stomach was growling relentlessly. She'd intended to take lunch, she really had, but just as she was about to head out, several inmates were rushed to the infirmary. Apparently, a friendly poker game in the kitchen had turned not-so-friendly, resulting in a few gushing cuts and nasty bruises.

After she patched everyone up, her regular, scheduled appointments had started, and she never caught a break.

She looked down at the paperwork she was finishing and sighed, her stomach contracting again, nagging her to take a break. The brain fog was real, and she knew she wouldn't be useful for much longer anyways. She'd just finish this last page and then go to dinner.

After completing the last line of the form and double checking everything, she gave her pen a satisfying click and stood up.

She exited the infirmary and took two steps into the hallway, "Hey Katie?"

"Yea?"

"I'm gonna head to dinner now."

"Ok, have a good-"

They both stopped, immediately aware of hollering and chaos coming their way.

Two guards rounded the corner, wheeling a stretcher holding a young prisoner she vaguely recognized. He was new, David something? She'd skimmed his file a few days ago.

He was shaking, spasming, his muscles contracted-it looked like a seizure.

She snapped back into doctor mode as she met the guards halfway, "Bring him in here, what happened?"

Wheeling Tweener into the infirmary, one of the guards replied, "I don't know, he was just eating and then he was on the ground."

"Ok, bring him over here, right here," she indicated, yelling for Katie to grab supplies.

Looks like she wouldn't be eating dinner after all.

XXXXX

After they'd stabilized him, she got the guards to agree to leave Tweener in the infirmary to rest for a bit. The flurry of excitement had given her a second wind of energy, so she sat in her office catching up on a few things, able to keep an eye on him through the glass between them.

She saw him shifting around in her peripheral vision and looked up. He'd propped himself up on his elbows and was looking around. She stood up and went out of her office, into the infirmary.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" she asked Tweener, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Good, I'm good, thanks doc."

"You gave us quite a scare there, has anything like this happened to you before?" According to his record, it hadn't; she checked and double checked it after he was stabilized.

He shook his head, "Nah, first time."

She felt bad for him, he seemed so small lying there on the gurney, so afraid but not wanting to show it.

"Well, I'm glad you're feeling better. I'm gonna have you sent back to your cell now, but I'll have you come back here tomorrow so I can check on you, ok?"

"Ok, thanks again, I really appreciate everything," he gushed, looking her in the eyes.

She smiled, prisoners with manners made her heart all mushy, despite her best efforts to maintain a hardened, no nonsense persona.

"Any time," she patted his shoulder again and went out to get the guard to take him back. Once he was upright and steady on his feet, the guard cuffed him and led him out of the infirmary.

After they left she looked at the clock. 8pm. She was exhausted and so far past hunger that she didn't even feel like eating anymore. A wave of fatigue washed over her.

"Hey Katie?"

"Yea?"

She paused, in a tired daze, "I'm gonna head home I think."

Katie feigned shock, "You, heading home before me? Has that ever happened in the history of Fox River?"

Sara smiled, "First time for everything I guess."

"Go home girl, I'm finishing up some paperwork and then I'll be out too."

"Ok, you good to lock up?"

"Yup, see you tomorrow."

"Ok thanks, see ya," Sara grabbed her bag and headed down the hallway.

XXXXX

Veronica was pissed. Beyond pissed. She'd gone to visit a gruff old forensic pathologist. She shouldn't complain about his personality, or lack thereof, she was the one who'd picked him after all. He had no connection to either side of Lincoln's case, and was the least biased opinion she could hope for.

He also didn't seem like the type to trouble himself with politics, nor was he the type to shy away from taking the stand in court if necessary. He was a scientist, through and through. Factual, to the point, and not the least bit concerned about anyone's emotions surrounding the case.

She sighed, she wasn't mad at him. She was mad at what he'd told her.

It was cold and snowing, but the snow was falling in those big, fat flakes she usually enjoyed. Her current sour mood prevented her from enjoying that as she hugged her coat around her tighter, pounding the pavement, heading back to her apartment.

Her brown leather bag was way too heavy. She was shivering and irritated, adjusting the shoulder strap of her bag so it wouldn't fall off. Although, it was full of so many dead-ends she might as well have dumped it in a trash can on her way home.

She'd been so hopeful and had thought for sure that they had a way out. A legal way for Lincoln to be free and live his life. She still cared about him more than she wanted to, and if saving his life and granting him freedom wasn't the way to a man's heart, what was? Besides food of course. She smiled, remembering the monstrous meals he'd packed away when they were teenagers. It's a wonder he didn't weight four hundred pounds.

She shook her head, trying to clear it of the lovesickness, what kind of woman in her right mind would be holding onto feelings for a man on death row?

Her heart sank. She was a lawyer damnit, she couldn't just sit back and do nothing, letting the system kill an innocent man. The fact that that man was her ex-lover just...complicated things.

She finally made it to her building and unlocked the door, kicking off her boots and dumping her bag on the table with a sigh of relief-she should really just invest in a wagon one of these days for all her files. She hung her coat on the rack by the door and went to the fridge, happy to find a left-over container of sesame chicken and rice. She threw it in a bowl and put it in the microwave, angrily punching the buttons.

She leaned against the counter and let out another sigh. Today definitely didn't turn out how she'd wanted.

The pathologist had told her that Terrence Steadman's body had been buried in a very eco-friendly method, which sounds great, but not if you're wanting the body to be well preserved. With how decomposed it was, the only method of identification was dental records.

The records of the body were a perfect match for Terrence Steadman. So, another dead end.

The microwave beeped, and she checked her food, stirring it all around and deciding it needed another minute.

Damnit she was disappointed. The discrepancy with the appendectomy had actually given her hope; had validated her notion that Lincoln really was innocent, and that she may be able to find enough evidence to prove it, but time wasn't on her side. Every dead end brought a feeling of dread, knowing that his time was almost up, and that she'd taken one step forward, only to slip backwards two.

She glanced over at her bag of files on the table. She should really give it a rest, take a breath before diving down the rabbit hole again. She really should…

She popped open the microwave and grabbed her bowl, heading to the table, and settled in for a long night.

XXXXX

Sara woke up ravenous. Apparently, that happens when you barely eat the day before. It was 5:50, ten minutes before her alarm was set to go off. If she got up now, she'd have extra time to swing by the coffee shop down the street for a cup of coffee that was far superior to that vile stuff the guards drink, and a breakfast sandwich. The thought alone was enough to have her swinging her feet out of bed and getting dressed.

She pulled on a gray pair of slacks and a navy-blue shirt, securing her hair back into a simple ponytail. It was still pitch-black outside, which was her least favorite part about winter. The cold she could handle, but the very few hours of sunlight drove her nuts. She grabbed her purse and set it on the small table by the door, putting on her peacoat and scarf.

Her commute to Fox River was about twenty minutes, long enough for some time to think, but not so long that it was inconvenient. The coffee shop was a little more than halfway there, and she pulled over into one of the parallel parking spots, thankful that there were two open ones in a row, so she didn't actually have to parallel park.

It was a quaint little shop, with enough indoor seating to accompany no more than ten people, but that's why she liked it. The coffee was amazing, the food always made fresh to order, and the servers were friendly. She often saw college students in there studying, the tables in front of them covered in notes, open laptops, and highlighters of every color. It made her smile, reminiscing about the good old days.

She only stopped there for coffee once or twice a week, not wanting to get used to the luxury every single day, but she spent enough mornings there to recognize the young woman behind the counter.

The barista smiled and greeted her. Her name was Kayla, a nursing student. She was about as tall as Sara, with long blonde hair and dimples.

Sara really liked chatting with her every time she stopped by. Kayla always asked Sara about her work, fully engrossed in all the stories she had from Fox River. The gory details of her work were too much for most people, so it was nice to actually be able to talk about it with someone.

They wished each other a good day and Sara headed out the door.

With her coffee and sandwich in hand, she went back to her car, being careful not to slip on the sidewalk. The day before had been unseasonably warm, a little above freezing, causing the snow to start melting, only to freeze again overnight. The result was a nice sheet of ice on just about everything.

She made it safely to her car, took a sip of her coffee, and continued on her way to work. She made a mental note to thank Katie again for filling out the paperwork the night before. As soon as she'd gotten home, she had showered and went straight to bed, falling asleep in a matter of minutes. She must have needed it, it usually took her at least an hour to shut off her mind. But this morning, well rested and with some food in her, she felt much better.

She parked and grabbed her food, walking up to the gate at Fox River, "Morning Jeff," she greeted the guard always stationed there.

"Mornin doc," he replied with a smile and nod.

She liked Jeff, he seemed nice, not a hot-head like so many of them were.

She took another bite of her sandwich and made her way to the infirmary. When she got to the door she had to do an awkward maneuver to dig in her purse for her keys without losing the sandwich. It didn't work. She didn't lose the sandwich, but she couldn't find her key.

Frustrated now, she set her bag down on the ground to really dig through it. And dump its contents all over the floor. This was ridiculous, they had to be in there.

A voice behind her startled her, "Everything ok?" Katie asked with confusion.

"I can't find my keys," she replied without preamble.

Katie waved a hand, "Oh, well they've gotta be around here somewhere, I'll help you look. Maybe they're in there," she gestured to the locked infirmary, "here let me."

She reached into her pocket for her own keys and unlocked the door.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

They searched high and low with no luck; under her desk, under all the paperwork on her desk, her white coat pocket…

"When was the last time you had them?"

"Well, I mean I had them yesterday morning, I didn't leave all day until I went home for the night."

"So they've gotta be here somewhere. I'm sure they'll turn up."

"Yea," Sara replied distantly, still crouched on the floor, trying to figure out when she could have lost them. Yesterday had been pretty chaotic, her keys had been the last thing on her mind with all of the stabbing and seizures going on.

She decided to give it the day, if they didn't turn up by the time she went home she'd have to put in a request for a new one, and they'd probably want to change the locks to be safe.

That all sounded like a hassle, and one she'd rather avoid. She said a silent prayer for her keys to show up, sat down, and started going over her charts for the day.

XXXXX

Michael was standing out in the yard, anxiously waiting.

He watched as a few inmates on P.I. spread salt on the sidewalks, hoping to melt the ice that had formed overnight. It crunched beneath his feet and he shifted his weight from side to side.

Sucre was next to him, the tips of his ears red from the cold, "You think he got it?"

"Guess we'll find out," he replied, just as Tweener came into view, heading in their direction.

Michael moved towards him and Sucre followed, meeting him halfway.

"Did you get it?" Michael asked.

Tweener smiled slyly, "Hells yea," and gave Michael a casual looking handshake, sliding the key into his palm in the process.

Michael swiftly pocketed the key, "Thank you."

"What're you gonna do with it now? She's gonna notice it's gone you know."

"That's none of your concern."

"Look man," he replied, growing agitated, "I did what you asked, aight, man you gotta tell me what's going on, hold up your end of the deal." He jerked his thumb in the direction of Avocado, who was laying on the ground, sneering in their direction. Michael couldn't fathom why he'd want to lay in the snow when it couldn't have been more than fifteen degrees out, but to each his own.

Michael understood how Tweener felt, he really did. He knew what it was like to be housed with a less than desirable character. He wasn't referring to Sucre of course, but some of the many foster parents and siblings he'd had growing up. There wasn't a more helpless feeling than being trapped anywhere, be it a prison cell or a house, with people who meant you harm. Whether it be physical, emotional, or otherwise, abuse from a roommate of any sort was devastating. He wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy.

He made his promise clear again, "We'll get you out of that cell, but I need you to do one more thing."

"It's always one more thing, you know what, I'm not doing anything more, not until I get something in return," he turned to walk away.

"Wait," Michael said with exasperation. He walked closer to Tweener and leaned in, "I promise to hold up my end of the deal, but I'm going to ask you one more time, can I trust you, I mean, really trust you?"

He met Michael's eyes, "Yes."

"Well in that case," he said slowly, lowering his voice, "we're getting out of here, that's what the key is for."

"For realz?" he couldn't hide his shock and excitement.

"Yes," Michael got even closer, "but you need to be quiet. And I need you to return the key to Sara without her knowing."

"No problem, man. She said she wanted to see me again today anyhow. Check up on me, but if I give her the key back how're you gonna use it?"

"We're going to copy it first."

"How? Today?"

"None of your concern, and yes, today. I'll give the key back in a few hours once it's copied and you can give it back to Sara-put it back in her pocket, make it look like it fell behind her desk, whatever you want to do."

"Ok, but the breakout," he was excited now, "how's it going down? I need some details." He did another gangster gesture that had Michael internally rolling his eyes, but he found it amusing despite himself.

"I'll tell you later. For now, get Sara's key back to her. That's your concern."

He nodded, "Sure thing boss."

XXXXX

"Good morning, Mr. Scofield," Sara greeted him as she grabbed his file.

"Hello."

"How're you feeling today?"

"Alright," he replied automatically, it was a habit. When people ask that question they usually don't want the real answer.

How was he really feeling? The headaches were more frequent, the tingling in his hands unsettling. Lincoln was set to die in a week and the fate of the mission was in the hands of several guys he barely knows.

As if that weren't enough, every time he came in for his shot he felt...short changed. He liked Sara. Liked her a lot. If the circumstances were different he'd have asked her out weeks ago. But what could he do? He couldn't exactly offer her a future. In a matter of days he'd be gone, and never be able to explain things to her, to tell her that his feelings were genuine. That's what hurt him the most. He had to leave things so open ended, without so much as an explanation.

Maybe he could leave a note, he considered. That wouldn't incriminate him any further than he'd already be. By the time she'd find it, they'd be long gone. Yea, maybe he could do that. The night they broke out, he could leave it on her desk. Lay out all of his feelings.

His stomach dropped at the thought, making him feel even more vulnerable considering she was only a foot away from him at the moment.

Sara nodded at his response, but her gaze lingered on him a moment longer, "It's ok to not be alright you know."

"I know," he said quietly.

She ripped open an alcohol pad and wiped his arm.

"Because if it were me, and my brother was almost out of time, I'd be pretty upset," she looked him right in the eyes.

"I guess," was all the response he could muster. She didn't know that he was planning on having Lincoln out of there in a few days.

She shook her head as she drew insulin into the syringe, "Forgive me for saying so, but, you seem way too…ok with everything."

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, "Well, it helps having someone to talk to," he paused and looked her in the eyes, wanting her to know that he meant every word, "thank you, for the other day."

She met his gaze with the same level of seriousness, "I'm happy to help."

He lowered his gaze, satisfied that she understood how grateful he was, and maybe she was right. It probably did seem suspicious, how "calm" he was in the face of all this chaos. But he couldn't tell her about the escape and that's where his hope really was. That's why he wasn't completely losing it.

But, he realized, Veronica's actions gave him a more believable explanation, "I guess I just have faith that it'll all be ok. I know he's innocent. I have to believe that the truth will save him."

She stuck his arm and pressed the plunger down, "The truth?"

"He has a lawyer on the outside, trying to find evidence. Hopefully enough to free him but if not, at least enough to delay the execution until they can find more proof of his innocence."

She disposed of the needle and pressed a cotton ball to the miniscule drop of blood on his arm, "I saw Lincoln's file Michael, the evidence against him is pretty damning."

"The evidence was cooked," he said with confidence, holding her gaze.

She studied his face, looking for signs of deception, "Who's the lawyer?" she asked.

"Veronica Donovan."

"Has she found anything?"

"Last time she visited, she mentioned having a few leads."

Sara didn't reply, but he could see the wheels turning.

"What?" he questioned.

She took the cotton ball off his arm and disposed of her gloves, "Nothing, you're all set, I'll see you tomorrow."

He got up and walked over to the guard, and together they made their way down the hallway. They turned a corner and practically ran into Tweener, being escorted to the infirmary by a different guard.

He gave a sly smile and nod to Michael, assuring him he had things under control. He really hoped he did.

XXXXX

Her keys were right there. Behind her inbox on her desk. How the heck did she miss them before? And how did they get there? Not like she made a habit of storing her keys in such a precarious place, primed to fall off or be knocked into the trash can at any moment.

She was puzzled, but glad they'd been found.

It was getting late now, and her eyes settled on the huge stack of paperwork left on her desk. She gave a dramatic sigh even though no one was around to hear it. It somehow made her feel better.

Grabbing her pen and diving in, she found it hard to focus. Her mind wandered back to what Michael had said about Lincoln.

Guilty or not, she never liked the death penalty. What made it worse was the fact that Lincoln had always been so decent to her; quiet, polite, never making derogatory comments (which was actually a big accomplishment in a place like this.) And if he truly was innocent, he couldn't die like that. He just couldn't.

But she knew the weaknesses of the justice system were plentiful. There are innocent men in jail and on death row. There are people who are framed, set up, or arrested for something as stupid as the color of their skin or simply because someone in a position of power doesn't like them. If a person of power wants to convict someone, they'll make it happen. It's all about authority and connections, and not always about the truth.

It angered her.

It didn't help that her father was the one pulling the strings. It wasn't his literal hand that would flip the switch and kill Lincoln, but he had the power to stop it, and wouldn't. To her, that was the same thing. No matter how many times she'd tried to reason with him, to discuss their differing political opinions, he'd brushed her off. He still treated her like a child in so many ways and it irritated her more than just about anything else could. There was no room for an adult discussion when it came to his policies- it was always his way or the highway. The fact that he wasn't willing to even listen, to even try to understand where she was coming from was infuriating, and a big reason why she rarely tried to reach out.

But this whole thing with Lincoln wasn't just about one man, Michael was caught up in the middle of it. He put up a tough front, but she could see him slowly retreating into himself, which worried her more than anything else. It was as if the ground beneath him had turned to quicksand and no one but her had noticed.

She had to do something, so she took it upon herself to save them both. She wasn't exactly sure how, but she subconsciously dropped her pen, watching as her hands went to the keyboard instead, typing the name "Veronica Donovan" into the search bar.

XXXXX

Veronica's head jerked up, startled by a knock at the door. It was late, the oven clock confirmed that it was 9pm. She'd fallen asleep sitting at the table, her head on a stack of papers.

She got up slowly and stiffly, realizing she was really getting too old to sleep like that. She was only thirty-three, but still.

Standing on her tip-toes, she looked out of the peep-hole and saw a pretty red-headed woman on the other side of the door.

Confused but curious, she opened it, "Uh, hello?"

"Hi, are you Veronica Donovan?"

"I am, uh, who are you?"

"My name is Sara Tancredi, I'm the physician at Fox River."

"Is everything ok?" her mind raced, "Is Lincoln hurt? Or Michael?"

"No, no everything is fine I just…uh," she looked down at her shoes and back up again, "well, I mean Michael isn't fine, but that's not why I'm here. Can I come in for a minute? I'd like to talk to you if that's alright."

Veronica felt at ease with her already, somehow knowing instinctively that she was on the right side, and her curiosity was piqued. Michael somehow wasn't "fine", but there was something even more important that the doctor before her wanted to discuss, "Sure, come on in," she backed up, allowing Sara to enter before shutting the door behind her and locking it.

"Thanks."

"Do you want coffee, tea, water?"

"Water would be great."

Veronica went over to the cupboard and grabbed two glasses, filling them both, "So...what did you want to talk about?"

"Lincoln."

Her brows furrowed in concern, "Is he doing alright?"

Sara nodded, "I guess. When I've seen him recently he's acted like he always does."

Veronica nodded.

"I was actually hoping I could talk to you about his case, Michael mentioned you were looking into it?"

Veronica was genuinely surprised. She felt a weight lift. Someone else was interested in helping to prove his innocence.

"Yea I am, well, trying anyways. It's been one dead end after another lately. I'd actually fallen asleep on that mess of papers before you got here," she said with a small laugh, gesturing at the table with papers scattered across it.

Sara smiled, "Nothing like a bunch of paperwork to lull you to sleep, don't I know it."

They shared a commiserating laugh.

"Here have a seat," Veronica gestured to the couch, setting both glasses of water on the coffee table.

"Thanks. And look, I know it's late, and if you don't have time to go through everything I understand, I just…there's definitely a sense of urgency right now. I'd like to help if I can. I don't know how I can help, I mean, I'm not a lawyer, but-"

"-No I get it," she smiled, "I'm happy to talk things through with you. Maybe saying it out loud to another person will actually help me sort through all the things jumbled around in my head."

"Yea," Sara smiled and sat sideways to face her, resting her forearms on her knees, "Michael mentioned you have some leads?"

She sighed, "Had a lead, turned out to be not as helpful as I'd hoped."

"What was it?"

"Terrence Steadman, the guy Lincoln supposedly shot, had an appendectomy years ago. When they did the autopsy, they noted the appendix to be present. So, we're obviously thinking that there was a huge mix up, enough to possibly exonerate him or at least delay the execution."

"But it wasn't?"

"No," she took a sip of water, "they exhumed the body. It was so decomposed that all they could go on were dental records. The records from that body matched Terrence's dental records."

"Hmm," Sara contemplated this, picking up her water and drumming her fingers on the glass, "records can be swapped you know."

Veronica's eyes narrowed.

"Yea, it's surprisingly not difficult to mix up one patient's record with another. And if someone set out to frame Lincoln and planned ahead and had the right connections, it would have been extremely easy to take the records from whoever that body really is and put them in Steadman's chart. And delete his real records."

Veronica listened intently, her mouth slightly agape, "Is there any way to trace it back, to prove they were swapped?"

Sara thought for a moment and shrugged, "I guess that depends on what type of information system the hospital and dentist offices used...but I don't get it, the discrepancy about the appendectomy, shouldn't that alone be enough to at least delay it?"

"No," she said defeatedly, "because of the whole thing with the dental records, they could have it thrown out in a second."

Sara frowned. They both took another drink.

Veronica glanced over at her newfound friend, who was staring off into space, "What're you thinking?"

Sara paused, shifting her gaze to meet Veronica's and saying softly, "I'm thinking about how wrong it all is. How horrible it is what they're both going through, and with Michael's diagnosis on top of everything…"

"His diagnosis?"

Her lips parted softly in surprise, "Uh, yea…I figured Lincoln," she waved her hand in a vague gesture, "or Michael or someone would have told you."

"Well, they didn't," she huffed, "what's going on?"

Sara hesitated, running a hand through her long, auburn hair, "I'm not really supposed to discuss it with anyone who's not family."

Veronica gave a knowing nod, but pressed on, "I can call Fox River and find out myself if that's better, I wouldn't want to put you on the spot."

Sara contemplated for a moment before asking slowly, "You're practically family, right?"

Veronica's eyes twinkled, "Known 'em my whole life."

"Alright, well," she let out an easy laugh, "if anyone asks where you found out, it wasn't me."

"My lips are sealed," Veronica promised, making the zipping motion across her tightly closed lips.

"Alright, uh, he was diagnosed not too long ago with a hypothalamic harmartoma."

Veronica's brows furrowed, "What's that?"

"A non-cancerous brain tumor. He was likely born with it and it just hasn't caused any symptoms until now. He recently started getting nosebleeds, headaches, stuff like that."

"Like his mom," Veronica remembered aloud.

"That's what I hear," Sara confirmed.

Her shoulders slumped, "Is he gonna be ok?"

"Honestly," she sighed defeatedly, "it's hard to say at this point. He needs surgery, but he doesn't want to go through with it, not before Lincoln's last day. He doesn't want to be in the hospital when it happens."

Veronica stared into the water glass for a long moment, "Damn."

"Yup," she sighed.

Veronica gave a knowing nod and suddenly felt very tired, all of the stress, the worry, coming down on her at once. They sat in comfortable silence a moment longer, both lost in thought.

"Can I ask you something?" Veronica asked.

"Yea, what?"

"Why are you doing this? Going out of your way to help?"

She shrugged, "They're my patients, it's my job to advocate for them, especially since they have no way to fight for themselves right now."

Veronica nodded, "Right, but I mean, most doctors still wouldn't go this far. No offense."

Sara smiled, "None taken. But, uh, most doctors don't have a father who's responsible for executing prisoners."

She froze, then smacked herself on the forehead, "Wow I must really be tired. "Tancredi" I didn't even think about it. You're the governor's daughter?"

Sara looked down at her feet, "Yea, I uh, I am."

Veronica started talking hurriedly, "Well, can't you talk to him? Tell him what we have? See if it's enough to stop it or at least delay it? I can find more, I know I can find more evidence we just need time, we-"

"-believe me," Sara stopped her, "if I thought it would make any difference in the world I'd march over to his office first thing in the morning," she shook her head sadly, "but it won't. He knows my stance on the death penalty and I know his. He won't listen to me…he never does."

"Oh," she replied, quiet and deflated, turning her attention to the glass in her hand, swirling the water and staring into the vortex.

"Ok I have to ask you now."

"What?" Veronica's head jerked up.

"Why are you doing this?

"I'm his lawyer."

Sara smirked, "Most lawyers wouldn't go to such extreme lengths. No offense," she added with a wink.

She laughed, "Ok touché, you got me there," a blush started appearing on her cheeks, "we uh, we dated for a while years back."

"You and Lincoln!?" Now she was interested.

Veronica laughed easily, "Yea we did, we grew up together," she shrugged, "girl next door kinda thing."

"I knew you were a family friend, but damn. Wait so did you know Michael as a kid too?"

"Yup, sure did."

She feigned complete seriousness, "I have just…so many questions."

They both started giggling.

"Oh, really?" Veronica replied with a suggestive smirk, "how much time do you have?"

"For this?" she raised her eyebrows, "all night."


	6. Chapter 6

Michael had just gotten back from the infirmary for his insulin shot and sat on the bottom bunk contemplating.

Sucre was in the bunk above him, singing something softly in Spanish. The yelling, clinking, and buzzing in the rest of the prison felt distant, providing an almost soothing background noise for his mind, which was filled to capacity by his own thoughts.

Sara had seemed fine this morning. He was looking for any indication that she was upset, suspicious, or otherwise bothered by the incident with her missing keys. She wasn't. In fact, she was suspiciously cheerful, smiling at him more often, almost in a secretive way...like she could see right through him. It made him uneasy. Why was she so happy? She was acting like she'd had a date last night or something.

Maybe she had. She should, right? Go out and have fun. He wasn't jealous.

His mind immediately started torturing him by playing out various scenarios of Sara on a date with a handsome mystery man. A fancy restaurant, his hand on the small of her back, touching the silky fabric of a dress that sinfully hugged her figure. The thought sent shivers down his spine.

What if the two of them went back to his place at the end of the night? The thought had him anxiously tapping his fingers on his leg. That had to be it, oh God, that's why she was in such a good mood today. He sighed. Well, whoever it was, he really hoped they'd made the rookie mistake of buying her flowers. He smirked to himself, enjoying a sense of superiority that he knew her better than that. Origami flowers only for Sara.

If he was ever lucky enough to be given the chance, he'd make her a bouquet of origami roses, and take her to the fanciest place money could buy. He'd always been frugal, making more than enough money to live comfortably, but choosing to live well within his means. But for Sara, he'd happily go all-out in a heartbeat, whether she wanted it or not.

He was curious now, what was her preferred type of first date? Maybe she hated fancy restaurants; a plausible side-effect of being dragged to them her whole life with her father to talk it up with the big wigs. Maybe she wanted to eat ice cream and walk on the beach…or a movie. No, movies meant he couldn't talk to her the whole date and that was unacceptable. Hmm, he'd have to think this through some more, leaving no chance of him being caught off guard if life somehow granted him the honor of taking her on a date.

He stood up and went over to the shelf above the toilet. Checking again, just to make sure, that the copy of her key was still safely hidden. It was. He let out a breath of relief and bowed his head, it was one more thing he could check off his mental list for the escape.

But bowing his head was a bad idea. His forehead started throbbing immediately, the pain intensifying so quickly he could hardly register it.

"Gah!" he yelped, pinching the bridge of his nose. A wave of nausea hit him as Sucre jumped down from his bunk.

"Hey, Papi you ok? Michael?"

His vision tunneled to black as he fell to the floor, hearing Sucre yelling, "Badge! BAAADGE!" before slipping into complete darkness.

XXXXX

Michael slowly blinked his eyes open, only to shut them immediately, assaulted by the bright white lights above him. He took a deep breath and stirred a little, daring to flutter his eyes open again in the hopes that they'd adjust to the lighting.

"Michael?" a soft, familiar voice said beside him. He heard feet shuffle as if someone was getting up.

A hand pressed lightly on his left shoulder, and he opened his eyes a crack.

"Michael, it's Sara, how're you feeling?"

It took him a moment to register her face, "Where am I?" he asked slowly, realizing that the bright room he was in wasn't the infirmary.

"You're at the hospital, same one where your testing was done," she squatted beside his bed, looking slightly up at him, before asking again more sternly, "how're you feeling?"

"Groggy."

She smiled a little, "Any pain? Tingling? Numbness?"

He willed his tired brain to scan his body, looking for anything amiss, "No, I don't think so. What happened?"

And why are you here with me? He wondered silently, taking in her drawn appearance. The clock on the wall read 10:35, and based on the darkness behind the window curtains, it had to be P.M.

"You collapsed in your cell. Sucre called for help and the guards brought you to me. I made sure you were stable but had a feeling this might be related to uh," she paused, bowing her head a moment, "to the tumor, and wanted to get you checked again. So," she shrugged, "here we are."

"Yea, here we are," he paused, "guess I owe Sucre a thank you."

Sara nodded and smiled weakly, "He's a good guy."

"Yes," Michael agreed, slightly surprised that she'd so openly compliment a fellow prisoner's character, "he is."

But that was something he liked about her. A person's past mistakes didn't define them to her. She saw through the prison-blues to the person beneath. She saw him.

He cleared his throat, "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be home in bed or something?"

The corner of her mouth turned up in a shy smile, "I didn't want you to wake up here alone."

His eyes twinkled, "Isn't there a guard somewhere, keeping tabs on me?"

She jerked her head towards the door, "Yup, right out there. But, I didn't think he'd be up for answering any medical questions you might have when you first wake up."

He realized that she was holding his hand now, still squatting next to the bed, her arm snaked through the railing and her hand folded over his. He realized a lot of things, the IV sticking out of his arm, the hospital gown he was in, the beeping of machines around him. He'd been too distracted by the woman next to him to register any of that before, which was strange- his brain usually had a hard time shutting out any stimuli, no matter what the circumstances. Interesting.

He squeezed her hand before asking, "So, what's next?"

"Well, they did another scan so we're waiting on those results. Until then, you'll be here. You should try to get some more sleep."

"I am kinda tired," he admitted, closing his eyes a moment.

"Get some rest," she patted his hand and went back to the chair against the wall.

He peeked one eye open, "You're staying the night?"

She shrugged, "Yup."

He smirked, "Well in that case, there's room up here ya know," he patted the small space next to him on the bed.

She laughed, "Nice try, Scofield."

He smiled, "Can't blame a guy for trying. Wait, I'm "Scofield" now?"

"You're "Scofield" when you're causing trouble," she retorted.

"True," he realized, thinking of the way Bellick barks his name when he was under the impression Michael had done something wrong. Whether or not he'd actually done something wrong was usually debatable.

"Either that or I could call you by your other names…Fish," she paused for dramatic effect, "Pretty," she drawled, imitating the infamous T-bag accent.

His eyes widened in shock and amusement, "How'd you know he calls me that?'

She wiggled her eyebrows, "I know things," she said slyly.

"Huh, I guess so," he chuckled.

A silence fell between them and he felt the weight of fatigue come over him. Before giving into it, he offered one more, "Thank you for being here." It was barley more than a whisper.

She smiled, "You're welcome. Now get some rest."

She pulled both feet up on her chair and leaned to one side, grabbing a book out of her bag and started reading. He couldn't see the title, but whatever it was, it was a hefty book with a worn cover, probably a classic. That didn't surprise him. He watched her between heavy blinks, and drifted off to sleep.

XXXXX

When Michael woke again there was sun streaming in the windows, the blinds were open, and he could see a clear blue sky. Since it was winter, that clear of a sky probably meant it was extra cold, and he was glad he wasn't being forced outside for yard time.

He looked to the side but found an empty chair. Sara's bag was still on the floor, so at least she was still in the hospital somewhere. That fact came with a massive wave of relief, he was really starting to depend on her presence more than he'd realized. It also meant that she trusted him with her purse; sure, he wasn't in any physical state to steal it and go running away with it, but still. He considered that a good sign.

His head had a dull ache, but physically he was feeling fine other than that, no strange tingling or numbness. He couldn't say the same about his mental state.

He was anxious, being here meant one more day was gone, and the escape would be harder to prepare for. There was still a lot to be done, and he feared that with no one else knowing what to do, he'd be rushed in the next few days, and quite possibly not be able to make it work. He had to get back there today.

Keeping everyone else out of the loop apparently did have its downfall, and this was it. He wasn't there, so no progress could be made. He wished he'd told Sucre. Out of all of them, he really did trust him the most-aside from Lincoln of course, but he was in solitary and couldn't exactly help from in there.

He watched the clock ticking on the wall and sighed. There was a T.V in his room but he didn't feel like turning it on, it would be too much of a distraction. He had to figure out how to adjust the timeline to make everything work, but planning proved to be an impossible task for him now.

His brain was still a bit foggy and tired, so he let it wander, a rare luxury, and found himself thinking about Lincoln, realizing that he didn't even know about the tumor. They rarely had a chance to talk, and when they did, that was the last thing Michael wanted to bring up. There was too much at stake, and a wound too deep- memories of their mother dying from the same thing. He couldn't put Lincoln through that again, especially not now. Better to pretend it didn't exist, to move forward, to get out of Fox River together and deal with the tumor later on.

But could he deal with it later on? Was there any chance that hospitals in Panama had the ability to deal with this kind of problem? He hadn't thought to research brain surgeons in Panama before committing his crime.

The one thing I didn't think to do, he thought sarcastically. Without internet access, his only real source of information on the matter was Sara and his other doctors. But that really didn't help, "Hey, just out of curiosity, know any good brain surgeons across the border?" Yea, he really didn't have a good way to find out.

He sighed.

A knock on the door pulled him out of his thoughts. A short, brunette nurse in her twenties came in. His heart sank a little in disappointment, wishing for a certain redhead instead, but that didn't stop him from offering a polite, "Morning."

"Good morning, how are we feeling today?" she asked cheerfully.

"Alright I think," he wasted no time in asking, "any idea when I'll be out of here?"

"The doctor will come talk to you in a bit to go over your scan results and they'll go from there."

"Ok, but, today? Tomorrow?"

She pressed a few buttons on the machine next to him, "Like I said, the doctor will have a better idea. He'll be in soon," she assured with a smile before leaving.

He sighed, growing impatient, tapping his fingers on the bed and being annoyed by the oxygen monitor on his finger getting in the way.

Not a moment later there was another knock, but instead of the man doctor he was promised, it was his favorite one. A smile spread on his face when he saw his current visitor, but the smile didn't last long. Sara's eyes were red, and she sniffled as she shut the door behind her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Sara?"

She looked up and it was obvious she'd either been crying or trying really hard not to.

"Sara, what's wrong?"

"Well," she pulled her chair up next to his bed and sniffled, "I talked to your doctors."

He waited silently.

"The tumor is growing more rapidly than they thought it would. They said since it was something you were born with, it was likely dormant for most of your life, or just growing so slowly you never had symptoms, but that's obviously changing pretty quickly."

She leaned her elbows on the rail of his bed, "Michael, you need surgery. As soon as possible."

He hesitated, "As soon as possible?" He asked with dread, knowing that Lincoln was as good as dead if he had to stay here.

"Yes, but here's the thing. They really couldn't guarantee anything. They said with the tumor's location, the operation is risky. Even if they manage to get it all, which is unlikely, you'd risk damage to other parts of your brain. Loss of motor skills, vision, memory problems…"

"So…what're my options?"

"Well," she pursed her lips, "you can do the surgery anyways, knowing the risks and the possibility that it won't be completely successful. Or...not," she shrugged.

He weighed his options in silence. If he did opt for the surgery, it couldn't be "as soon as possible." He had to get Lincoln out in a few days, so that wasn't an option.

But, if he told Sara and the other doctors that he wanted to wait, he'd really be opting out, considering that he wouldn't be in the country anymore to have the procedure done at a later date.

Basically, no matter what he did, he wouldn't be able to have the surgery.

Saying from the get-go that he didn't want it might prove to be the least complicated route to take. He could convince them that it wasn't worth the risks to him, that he couldn't afford it, or whatever other excuse seemed the most valid to them, appeasing everyone involved.

"Can I think about it?" was all he could respond.

She nodded, "Michael," she started, "I want to make sure I'm being really clear here. If you don't have the surgery, the tumor will likely kill you, within a few weeks to a month at most. The surgery at least gives you a chance, a pretty good chance. They have to say all the disclaimers about risks and not being able to remove all of it, but it's not a lost cause."

He nodded, still in denial. Of all the possible scenarios he prepared for, this certainly wasn't one of them.

His plan was for he and Lincoln to escape together, to live a life of sand and surf in Panama for the rest of their days. But this? What could he offer Lincoln now? Assuming that a crushing headache didn't incapacitate him at the exact wrong moment, he could get Lincoln and all the other guys over the wall in a few days. He could get them across the border but then what? He dies and leaves Lincoln alone?

Lincoln would never forgive himself for that. Whether he'd admit it or not, he would blame himself, arguing that if Michael hadn't been in Fox River in the first place, he would have been able to have the surgery in time, saving his life.

But, Michael realized, Lincoln still didn't even know about the tumor. No one did except Sara. Hmm.

No, keeping him in the dark wouldn't help anyways. If he died "suddenly" in Panama, Lincoln would want answers. An autopsy by anyone even semi-qualified would reveal the tumor. He couldn't do that to him either.

He realized that Sara was staring at him still, her forearms resting on the railing of his bed, her chin on her forearms.

"What're you thinking?" she asked.

"Too much," he replied.

She nodded with an understanding smile, "Care to share with the rest of the class?"

He smirked, "Not really."

"Of course not," she rolled her eyes, "can I at least ask...what's holding you back from wanting the surgery?"

"A lot of things."

"Ok, what's the biggest reason?"

He paused, "Lincoln."

"Ah," she bowed her head, "you don't want to be here when the day comes."

"I have to be there for him."

They were silent for a moment. He looked up and saw her staring out the window, lost in thought.

She felt his eyes on her and turned to face him, "Have you heard any more from Veronica?"

The quick change of subject threw him, "No, why?"

"I was just thinking, if she had even enough evidence to delay the execution, you could have the surgery and recover in time to get back…although," she laughed softly to herself, "that seems like a new level of cruelty. Having brain surgery and recovering just in time to head back to prison for your brother's final moments."

"Yea, I can think of things I'd rather be doing," he replied with a lame attempt at humor.

Her shoulders slumped, "I wish there was something more I could do. For both of you."

"I know," he reached up and put a hand over hers, "but for what it's worth, I think you've already gone above and beyond your Hippocratic oath."

She smiled and gave his hand a squeeze, "Well…thank you," she replied shyly and then cleared her throat, "I'm gonna head back to Fox River for a bit, there's some things I need to catch up on. And I'm sorry…but they said they need your answer today. I know it's a big decision and not a lot of time to make it but please, give it some thought. And I'll tell the guards that if you have any questions for me to let you call the infirmary, ok? I'll be there all day, and if you're still in here tonight I'll come by again."

"You don't have to do that."

"I know," she got up and looked at him for a moment before leaning down and pressing a kiss to his forehead. He closed his eyes, the soft pressure of her lips calming him down, making him wish even harder that she didn't have to leave.

"Please think about it, Michael," she whispered as she ran a hand over his short, stubbly hair before turning and walking out the door.


	7. Chapter 7

"Infirmary, this is Dr. Tancredi," the phone had only rang once before she picked it up. She'd been anxiously awaiting the news of Michael's decision.

"Hey Doc, it's Bob," the guard replied, "Scofield is being sent back now."

"What did he say?"

"What did who say?"

"Michael," she clarified with frustration, "did he decide to have the surgery, or?"

"No," he replied, "he's not going to."

Her heart sank, and then started racing. How could he NOT have the surgery!? He was choosing suicide so that he could be there for his brother's execution. There's no way they were both going to die because of this mess, not if she had any say in it anyways.

She sighed angrily, "Alright, thanks for letting me know," and slammed the phone down.

She sat down and started bouncing her knee up and down. She had never been one to pace around a room, she preferred to sit anxiously instead, fidgeting. No, this couldn't happen, she had to reason with him. Lay it out for him, again, plain and simple. He had to do the surgery, it was really just a matter of when. That was his choice.

Damn, she wished she could tell Lincoln about the tumor. If anyone could convince Michael that he was making a huge mistake, it was him.

Her mind bounced from Lincoln to Veronica, wondering if she'd found anything that might delay the execution. If she did, it would be a win-win, a two-birds-one-stone situation. Delay the execution, allowing more time to find evidence to exonerate Lincoln while simultaneously allowing Michael the time he needed for his surgery. She chewed on her bottom lip, realizing with hurried agitation that she owed her new friend another visit.

But she really should stay at work…there was always so much to get done and so little time, her eyes scanned the array of papers strewn about her desk. They were seriously understaffed, and she just never seemed to be able to catch up on everything. Leaving early wasn't going to help that. She started making a pros and cons list, reasons to stay and reasons to go, but that didn't last long. Her instinct quickly won out and had her springing out of her chair. There was no way she'd be able to focus anyways until she talked to Veronica and got some answers.

She grabbed her bag and left the infirmary, "Hey Katie?"

"Yea?"

"I'm heading out for, uh," she looked at the clock and saw it was already three in the afternoon, "for the rest of the day probably. If there's an emergency, call me and I can come back, I won't be too far."

"Ok, is everything ok?" she asked.

"Yea, there's just something I need to take care of."

"Ok," she replied skeptically as Sara hurried down the hallway.

She got to her car and pulled out her cell phone, calling the number Veronica had given her. The machine picked up.

"Hey, it's Sara. Uh, something's going on with Michael, I'll tell you about it soon. I hope it's ok that I'm heading over I just, there's a lot we need to talk about and I figured it would be better in person. I'll see you soon," she hung up and pulled through the gate, leaving Fox River.

The whole way over her mind was racing. It was only a fifteen-minute drive, but it felt like an eternity, she was clinging to the last shred of hope she had that Veronica had made progress.

She parked on Veronica's street, close to her apartment and fed the meter the few quarters she had with her. Folding her wallet shut and shoving it in her purse, she marched towards the door, her hair flowing behind her up and then down again, bopping against her shoulders with every step.

Knocking in a way that she knew was hurried and annoying, but couldn't bring herself to care, she waited for Veronica to answer.

"Veronica, it's Sara," she offered as she knocked again.

She heard faint footsteps behind the door and then heard the lock click open.

Veronica was standing there in sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, her green eyes wide, "Come in, quick, did anyone follow you?"

Sara's brows furrowed, "No, why would anyone be following me?" she glanced behind her, growing even more alarmed.

Veronica paced around her kitchen and let out a big, shaking, sigh.

"What's going on?" Sara asked again, standing in front of her to make her stop pacing.

Veronica's eyes went to the floor when she stopped, "Last night, I…"

She looked lost, Sara realized. Dazed and out of sorts, like something terrible had happened. She grabbed her gently by the shoulders, "Hey, come here, sit down," she guided Veronica to her own couch, then went to the kitchen for a glass of water.

She brought the glass over and set it in front of her, "What happened?" she asked calmly, taking a seat next to her on the couch.

Veronica's eyes were glassy. She took a deep breath, "Last night I went to meet this guy. Hale. He said he had information on Lincoln."

"Ok," Sara prompted slowly, wondering where the bad part was.

"I met him and he said…well, he said a lot of things, the first one being that Lincoln was picked a long time ago to take the fall for this. For Steadman's death. But then he said that Steadman isn't dead. It was a hoax. He had a list of everyone involved in his jacket pocket. He was about to give it to me and then told me to step to the side, to hide behind a car," she took another shaky breath, "another car pulled up and this guy got out. He basically accused Hale of disobeying orders and betraying him, and then he shot him. Right there in the street.

"Oh my God," Sara whispered sympathetically, scooting closer to her and putting an arm around her.

"I didn't know what to do. I just waited for the guy to leave," she sniffled, "and he took the papers with him of course, so I don't even have anything to show for it. He didn't say any of the names out loud, he just said they call themselves "The Company" which is pretty vague."

Sara considered this, "You may not have anything physically in your hands but, Veronica, if what Hale said is true, this is huge."

"But we can't prove it," she huffed in frustration, "it's just me recounting a conversation I had in an alley with some guy. Not to mention I'm Lincoln's ex-girlfriend which, to any good prosecutor, makes anything I say invalid unless I can prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt."

Sara's heart went out to her; that had to have been scary. She leaned back into the couch and stared at the ceiling trying to process what she'd just heard, the magnitude of it slowly seeping in. Veronica slumped over so that her head was on Sara's shoulder, tugging the sleeves of her shirt down before pulling her knees to her chest.

Sara could feel her anger building. This isn't right. Lincoln is going to be executed for a crime that didn't even happen. The system could be so broken, and the people in charge didn't even-

The people in charge. Like her father.

She watched the ceiling fan go around and around for a few moments, feeling a rock form in the pit of her stomach, before acknowledging out loud what she had to do, "Oh no," she said with a big sigh.

"What?" Veronica asked, looking up at her.

"Well, the way I see it there's only one option. I can't do nothing. And the only real influence I have right now is my last name," she sank even further into the couch and closed her eyes, "I have to talk to my dad."

Veronica sat up straighter and turned to face her, sniffling, "Do you think it'll work?"

"No," she answered honestly, still watching the fan, "I highly doubt, I mean highlyyy doubt he'd ever pardon anyone, no matter what the circumstances. However," she sighed, "I have to hope that given all of this evidence he'll at least consider a delay."

"Right," she agreed, "so, when can you talk to him?"

Sara had a determined look in her eyes and sat up, "Tonight," she replied, set on her decision but very unhappy about the prospect. She'd rather stick hot needles in her eyes than argue with her father about his policies. Life would be so much easier if she just didn't care. She could go home, take a bubble bath, read a book and not lose a wink of sleep over this whole thing. But nope, her empathetic nature was her Achille's heel in this case and she knew it, but that didn't stop her from following its lead.

"Do you want a wing-man?" Veronica asked.

Sara tilted her head, considering. She'd love one; in theory, her father should be less assertive and rude in front of a stranger, right? He'd take his condescending comments and flippant insults at her down a notch. In theory.

But reality was different, so she shook her head, "That's ok, I'll do it myself," she paused for a moment, "but I'll let you know how it goes, ok?"

Veronica nodded, still looking a bit shaken up, "Ok."

"Hey," Sara sat up and turned to face her, "it'll be ok. If you need anything, call me…I don't live far."

"Thank you," she whispered, giving an embarrassed laugh, "I mean, I'm 99% sure the guy didn't see me but…I'm still scared. Scared that he did and will somehow find me."

"I get that," she reassured, "just make sure to lock all your doors and windows, and take care of yourself, ok? I'll be in touch soon I promise."

She nodded, "Thanks."

"No problem," she put her hands on her knees, bracing herself to stand up but then hesitated, "do you think I can stall anymore?"

Veronica laughed, "You're really looking forward to this aren't you?" she asked sarcastically.

"Oh," she smiled and stood up, "you have no idea my friend…no idea."

Veronica stood up too and walked her to the door. Sara turned to face her one last time before Veronica shut the door and met her eyes, "Be safe."

She nodded, "You too."


	8. Chapter 8

Hope you're enjoying this little story. Reviews/favorites/follows are always appreciated. Happy reading!

XXXXX

The headaches were happening more often; pretty much every day at some point or another. One had him in its grips now, as he lay on his back on the bottom bunk, pressing the heel of his hands on his forehead in a vain attempt to ease the pain.

Sucre was standing by the bars, looking out. With nothing else to do, watching other prisoners was what they all naturally drifted to. Everyone just ended up standing at the edge of their cell, watching everyone, watching them.

"Agh," Michael couldn't help but vocalize some of the pain, pressing harder against his head.

"You ok?" Sucre asked, turning to look at him.

He sighed but didn't answer.

"Michael, are you ok?" he asked again.

"I'll be fine."

"Bro, you don't look fine," he came over to sit next to him, "what's going on? You've been in and out of the hospital a lot. Is something wrong?"

Michael opened his eyes into thin slits to peer at him, deciding there was no real reason to hide his diagnosis from Sucre anymore. It had to make him wonder, all the hospital visits. And if Michael were him, he'd be concerned that whatever it was would affect the escape. He owed Sucre an explanation, and reassurance that it wouldn't affect the plan.

"Yea, somethings wrong," he started, not knowing how much detail to share, "I have a uh, I have a brain tumor."

Sucre was at a loss for words. He silently made the sign of the cross and kissed the cross he always wore around his neck.

"It's apparently something I was born with but hasn't caused problems until now."

"So what are they gonna do? I mean, are you gonna be ok?"

"They aren't going to do anything. They wanted to do surgery as soon as possible, but with the execution being so close that isn't an option. I can't spend time in the hospital right now."

"Well, what's going to happen if you don't do the surgery?"

Michael hesitated, "I'll die," he said simply.

Sucre stared at him like he'd just grown another head. After the initial shock wore off, he gave a deflated sigh before looking at him with understanding, "So you're giving your life to save Lincoln's."

He shrugged, "I guess I am. Wasn't how I expected all this to go, but there's only so far that planning can get you."

"Can you get the surgery after?"

"I could try, but we'll be on the run for a while. Not like I can just swing by any hospital and use my real name."

Sucre sat silently for a moment, lost in thought.

"How did you even know, anyways?" he asked after a bit, "You know, that it was something serious?"

"Sara caught me with a nosebleed and made me get the tests done. I didn't really want to, but she insisted."

His eyes twinkled and his dimples appeared, "Sara, huh? Anything going on with you two?"

Michael couldn't help but smile a little, "I'm not sure. I mean," he stared at the rungs of the bunk above him, "what could I possibly have to offer? In a few days we'll all be wanted fugitives. That's not a life she'd want."

"You don't know that."

"You think she'd trade her life and career, here, for a life on the run in Panama?"

He shrugged, "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that people will do just about anything for love," he replied longingly.

Michael understood, "Have you talked to Maricruz lately?"

He looked down, "No. I haven't told her anything specific anyways. The whole "the less you know the better" thing."

"Right."

Sucre put a hand on his shoulder, "Don't give up on it."

"On what?"

"Anything. The escape. The tumor. Sara. Have some faith, Papi," he smiled, "have some faith."

XXXXX

"Sara, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

She was standing in the doorway of her father's residence. He looked surprised to see her.

Despite the fact that the sun was practically set, and he appeared to be home alone aside from the housekeeper, he was still wearing the suits he always wore to work. She didn't think she'd ever seen him in jeans and t-shirt...didn't even know if he owned any.

They never hugged hello or goodbye, so she simply walked in past him, taking in the familiar surroundings. It was the home she'd grown up in, but she had always felt a little out of place there, and still did. It was too...orderly, like it belonged in an interior decorating catalog...like no one actually lived there; probably because since her mother had died and Sara had left, no one really did. He worked all the time.

She didn't bother taking off her coat, knowing this shouldn't take long, and got right to the point, "I have a favor to ask."

"Ah," he nodded and looked at his feet.

"It's about Lincoln Burrows."

He raised his eyebrows, "And what about Lincoln Burrows?"

"Well," she wrapped her hand around the shoulder strap of her cross-body bag, glad to have something to hang on to, "I've been speaking to his lawyer, and there are several pieces of information that...well, they raise some questions."

His facial expression said it all. He didn't want to hear about it, had already made up his mind that she was wrong, but she persisted.

"I'm not asking for you to grant clemency," she clarified, "I'm asking for you to consider delaying the execution, giving the lawyer more time to look into the discrepancies."

He crossed his arms, "And why would I do that?"

She studied him. The crossing of his arms alone signaled a "closed-off" body language. If that weren't enough, the pursing of his lips and narrowing of his eyes all but screamed "I don't want to hear this," but she couldn't afford to keep silent, not with a man's life at stake...several men if she wanted to get technical.

"Because there's a good chance that he's innocent. You can't kill an innocent man."

"How many of these guys claim they're innocent, huh? Eighty? Ninety percent?"

"But there's evidence, real discrepancies," she was getting frustrated now but tried to keep her voice level, "they just need more time to look into it."

"Why haven't they been looking into it all along? It's not like he was sentenced last week."

Sara hesitated. During one of their chats, Veronica had mentioned how rocky it had been when Lincoln was convicted. Everyone, including her and Michael, believed that he was guilty. Veronica had been hurt, angry, and confused. Instead of trying to prove him innocent, she had tried to move on.

But she couldn't tell her dad that.

"They have been. It's the legal system, it takes time," she retorted vaguely, hoping it was enough to satisfy him.

"Look, Sara, I can't just go granting favors for inmates because you like them. If I help one man, they'll all start asking for help, using you to get to me, weaseling their way in for special treatment. I can't put you in that position."

She scoffed and raised her eyebrows, "Don't patronize me. I can take care of myself."

"Like you did during the riots?" he shot back.

She fumed. Actually, she thought sarcastically, Michael took care of me then. You know, Lincoln's brother?

She took a moment to calm herself before saying again, "I'm asking on behalf of Lincoln because there are legitimate reasons to be concerned about his case."

She re-adjusted her bag on her shoulder.

He pointed to it with smug amusement, "And I assume some of those reasons are in there?"

His arrogance was infuriating. She was trying so hard to be reasonable, respectful, and what did she get in return? Condescension. He was literally looking down at her, which was a real skill considering they were the same height.

"Uh, yea," she slung the bag off her shoulder and produced a folder, "this is just some of it," she handed it to him.

He took it reluctantly. She knew exactly what he was thinking, which made the situation even worse. He was thinking that she was a naive, stupid girl, falling for the charm of a handsome inmate. He was wrong. Sure, she was attracted to Michael, but this was about Lincoln and the facts of his case. He needed to see beyond what he thought of her, and see the truth for what it was.

"Look, dad," she sighed, "all we're asking for here is a little more time. I have to be there when they kill this man, all I'm asking you to do is take an hour of your day to look over his file," she paused, "and if it helps, pretend it didn't come from me."

XXXXX

Michael walked into the infirmary and took a seat on the table. Sara was in the other room, and he watched her, phone pressed between her ear and shoulder, scribbling something on a sticky note in front of her.

He wondered what her handwriting looked like. Was it messy like a normal doctor? No, he couldn't see that happening. But, he suspected it wasn't painfully perfect either, she didn't strike him as a neat freak. It was probably somewhere in the middle-legible for sure, she wouldn't risk someone misinterpreting a prescription or diagnosis on account of her poor penmanship. She cared too much about her patients for that.

She hung up the phone and made one last note before tossing the pen down and grabbing what he assumed was his file.

She swung the door open and got right to business getting his shot ready.

"Busy day?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes with a small laugh, "Little bit."

"In a good way or a bad way?"

"Ah, I guess it could be worse. No horrible injuries to speak of yet, but the paperwork sure piles up fast."

"It always does," he agreed. That's one thing he really didn't miss about working.

She worked swiftly and administered his shot.

"I wanted to thank you," he started.

"For what?"

"For staying with me at the hospital."

She looked up from the cotton ball she was holding to his arm, "Of course."

They held each other's gaze for a moment longer. He suspected that she'd convinced the guards that she needed to stay with him for medical reasons when in reality, she was there for moral support. That's what he hoped anyways.

He rolled down his sleeve and stood up, but then froze. Just outside the infirmary door was Lincoln. Cuffed of course, and with a guard next to him.

"What?" he looked at Sara for an explanation.

"Sit back down, Michael," she asked calmly.

"Can I?" he stammered out as he sat back down, still staring at Lincoln.

"Yup, that's actually why he's here. I arranged to do his weekly physical now, so you two could talk."

Now Michael felt a little uneasy, blindsided, "Talk about what?"

She met his eyes, "Whatever you want," she took a step closer and put a hand on his forearm, "but I highly suggest you tell him about your diagnosis."

"Why?" he looked up at her warrily.

"If the roles were reversed, wouldn't you want to know?"

Yes. He thought.

"No."

"Michael, look, I'd tell him myself if I could but privacy rules prevent that. He deserves to know. I had to call in all kinds of favors to arrange this," she paused, "I even specifically picked a day that Bellick was off."

He smirked at that.

"This is your chance-your one chance to have a conversation with him before," she still never liked saying it outright, "before it's too late."

She was right and he knew it...but that didn't mean he had to like it.

"Ok," he whispered reluctantly.

She nodded, "Alright, I'll go get him. And I'm sorry, but I do have to be in the room while you talk. Rules against leaving two inmates unattended and all that," she waved a hand, "oh, and the fact that I lied to the guards."

He raised his eyebrows, "You did?"

"Yea, I may have told them that I needed to question you two together, needing more information about your family history. Lincoln being older, he might remember more that could be useful with your diagnosis."

He smiled, trying not to be impressed by the cunning, manipulative side of her that was revealing itself.

She walked to the door and opened it, saying something to the guard that Michael couldn't hear. He watched as the guard took his hands off Lincoln and allowed him to follow Sara into the infirmary. The guard remained at the door, watching them silently through the window.

Lincoln was still cuffed behind his back, but that didn't stop Michael from throwing his arms around him.

"Hey," Lincoln said simply.

"Hey," Michael replied with a sad sigh.

Sara leaned with her back against the wall, her eyes on the ground, but he knew she would be listening intently.

"So what's all this about?" Lincoln asked.

Michael would have loved to use this time to talk about the escape, or anything besides his diagnosis. But they weren't alone, "Well..."

He couldn't bring himself to say anything more.

Lincoln looked at him expectedly, "Spit it out Michael, what's going on?"

He looked over at Sara, who was still staring at the ground like her life depended on it.

He sighed, "I have a tumor. Same kind mom had."

Lincoln took a moment to process before asking, "How bad is it?"

"Pretty bad. They're guessing I have a month or so left."

Lincoln's eyes widened in shock but his voice stayed calm, "Can't they do anything? Why can't they do something?" he glanced over at Sara for an explanation, but she just nodded to Michael in response, urging him to reply instead.

"There's a surgery but there's no guarantee that it would even work," he replied quietly.

Lincoln looked over to Sara again, silently asking for confirmation.

"Well," she began, "that's correct that they can't make 100% guarantee."

"But there's a chance?" Lincoln asked.

"Of course," she nodded, "a pretty decent chance that it would prolong his life...but of course there are some risks involved, as with any surgery."

Lincoln looked back to Michael, "You have to try. You can't just not try, Michael," he was agitated now, "why aren't you gonna do it?"

"Because if I have surgery now it means I can't be there for you. I'm not leaving you alone."

Lincoln glanced over at Sara again more subtly, aware that they couldn't speak freely, "What if you have the surgery after I'm gone?"

"Gone?" Michael questioned, needing clarity in what he was really asking.

"Once I'm dead. After the execution, you could have the surgery. You could have a chance."

So there it was. Lincoln was willing to die if it gave him a chance to live. Problem was, Michael wanted to do the same thing for him. Their hands were tied. Either they both escape and save Lincoln, only to have Michael die shortly after from the tumor, or Michael has the surgery to save himself, leaving Lincoln to be taken out by the chair.

"I guess I could," he ventured carefully, trying to make sense to Lincoln while simultaneously hiding the truth from Sara, "but just know this: no matter what my decision, I'm not letting you die alone."

I'm not letting you die at all. He thought.

"I'll do whatever it takes," he said with finality, looking Lincoln square in the eyes. The escape was happening. He wasn't backing out now.

Lincoln shook his head, "You shouldn't do this Michael, not if it could kill you in the process."

"I'm not changing my mind."

They both went silent, looking into each other's eyes, considering their options.

Lincoln shrugged, "Alright, I mean, it's up to you."

Michael nodded.

After a long pause, Sara cleared her throat, "Lincoln, are you uh, you ready to go back?"

He nodded, "Yea, thanks Doc. Thanks for letting me talk to him."

"Sure thing," she replied, opening the door and getting the guard to escort him out.

Lincoln left, and the two of them were alone again.

She glared at him, obviously unhappy with how the conversation between the brother's had gone.

"Look, Sara," he began.

She held up her hand, "No, Michael," she sighed, "it's your choice. You don't owe me an explanation."

"But there is an explanation. I just can't tell you yet."

"Yet?"

"Yes. Someday, I promise this will all make sense," he replied, wishing desperately that the circumstances were different and he could explain everything to her.

A furrow appeared between her eyes, "Ok," she answered slowly, trying to figure out what he meant by that.

"Ok," she said again with a sigh, "let's get you back to your cell."


	9. Chapter 9

The escape was just two days away now. From the moment Michael woke up, he was in a constant state of anxiety, overanalyzing everything that could possibly go wrong. If they got caught it was over, for all of them. It wasn't just he and Lincoln anymore. Every person they were taking with them was a liability and ultimately his responsibility. He was responsible for getting them their freedom, while at the same time being responsible for anything they might do with that freedom.

He knew that wasn't completely true. He logically knew that he wasn't responsible for everyone's actions once they were over that wall, but he couldn't help but feel like he was...especially with T-bag. He hated that he'd weaseled his way into this. Of all the inmates to be released back into society...the things he might do, the people he could hurt...he shuddered and shook off the thought.

The butterflies in his stomach were constant, he couldn't eat anything. Sucre seemed to be having the same problem, leaving half of every meal untouched, which was definitely a new trait in the time that Michael had known him. T-bag happily swooped in every time to finish what they couldn't; apparently he wasn't nervous at all. Then again, he was serving a life sentence, so he didn't have anything to lose if they got caught.

Whenever he saw C-note, they nodded cordially at each other without being too obvious. The overall attitude about race in this place was unbelievable, and if Michael was seen consorting with a black man, the other white men would question his loyalty whenever the next "race war" might happen. He'd lived through that once and had no interest in it happening again. At least not while he was still in Fox River. But C-note had held up his end of the bargain, getting him the Pugnac when he needed it, and helping out with the digging in the guards room...so Michael had no real issues with him.

And speak of the devil, he nodded to C-note as he and Sucre were making their way back from breakfast when Bellick stopped Michael, "You got a visitor."

"Who?"

"Do I look like a secretary to you?" he retorted, "Find out for yourself," he barked as they went to the visitor room.

The walk down was only a couple minutes, but he spent the whole time wondering. Was it Veronica? Had she found something more? Or a reporter maybe, wondering about Lincoln's case? To be honest, he didn't have many friends on the outside anymore, certainly no one who would pay him a visit now.

He scanned the room and nearly fell to the floor. Was he hallucinating? He brought a hand under his nose to check for blood. Nothing. This couldn't be real, was the tumor playing games with his mind? He couldn't walk, felt frozen in place.

Bellick nudged his arm, "What's the matter, Scofield? Look like you've seen a ghost," he looked around too, trying to figure out what was so shocking and horrifying.

Bellick nudged Michael, and he moved as if in a trance, towards the table with the only person in the room he vaguely recognized.

She looked up at him smugly, a sly smile on her face, "Hello, Michael."

He sat down across from her in silence, swallowing nervously.

"How is this, how are you…"

"Alive? Yes, I'm sorry about that. I didn't mean to deceive you and Lincoln, but I had to."

"Had to?" he was becoming more lucid and angrier by the minute, "you had to fake your own death, leaving your children alone, to be thrown into the system?"

"Yes I did," her eyes intense, "you wouldn't understand. Well, you might, but Lincoln certainly wouldn't," she said with a dismissive wave, "you always were the smarter of the two of you."

He took in her appearance. Of course, she looked older than the mother he remembered, but she'd obviously done well for herself. Her posture was that of someone with confidence, the kind of self-assurance that only comes from a combination of wealth, power, and the genuine belief that she's the smartest person in the room. She was wearing a nice suit, a designer bag on the table next to them, her hair and make-up nicely done.

Her voice sounded exactly how he remembered, but it's tone was darker, more sadistic. This wasn't the mom who taught him how to build things, to do puzzles. Wasn't the mom who played kickball in the yard with he and Lincoln when their dad had been away on business. No, she wasn't the same person he remembered, not at all.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm here to make you an offer."

"An offer?"

She folded her hands in front of her on the table, "It's come to my attention that you've recently been diagnosed with something rather unfortunate. I'm here to offer a solution."

He was taken aback, "How do you have access to my medical records?"

"I'm very well connected."

"Why would you even think to look?"

"I've been keeping tabs on you, Michael, is that really such a surprise?"

"It's a surprise because you're supposed to be dead," he retorted.

"I would be dead if they hadn't helped me. You see, I also had a hypothalamic hamartoma, Michael. They operated on me and saved my life. And in exchange, I agreed to spend my life working for them. That's what I'm here to offer you."

"Who exactly is "they"?"

"The Company, of course," she rolled her eyes, "Geez, Michael I thought with an I.Q like yours you'd have figured that out by now."

"That's why you're here? To tell me that if I agree to work for the people who took you and dad away from me, who ruined my childhood...if I work for them, they'll save my life?"

"They want you, Michael. They know what you're capable of. A mind like yours doesn't come around very often. They're willing to provide a life saving operation, the surgery they can provide is far beyond anything a public hospital can offer, get you out of prison, and provide the job opportunity of a lifetime. It's a very generous offer, I think you should consider."

"They can get me out of prison?" he asked to clarify, already skeptical.

"Oh," she waved her hand, "child's play. They could have you out of here tomorrow if you agree to their deal."

"I'm not agreeing to anything unless they get Lincoln out of here too."

She scoffed, "You're willing to risk your life for that imbecile? He got what he deserved."

His eyes widened in shock, "How can you say that?"

"Michael, you are the one with potential here, not him. That's the deal. They want you, and couldn't care less about him," she paused, "except to make sure that he dies for what he did."

"But he didn't do anything. Why are they trying so hard to make it look like he did?"

"Someone has to be responsible."

"For what?" his voice was escalating, "Can you, for once in your life, be honest with me?"

She held his gaze, sizing him up. Her eyes were piercing, analyzing her opponent.

"I suppose I owe you that much," she agreed after a moment, "Lincoln was the fall guy because of what your father did."

"Dad was an alcoholic…" he replied slowly.

"No. He wasn't. That's just what you were told," she sighed, "he worked for The Company too. And Steadman's company, Ecofield, was...well, became a problem for The Company. Your father leaked some Company secrets to Steadman, so of course the only option was to kill him."

"Kill dad or Steadman?" he asked to clarify.

"Steadman. You father was vanished the moment after he leaked the information."

Michael slowly put the pieces together, "And Lincoln was chosen as the one to be framed because it was our father that leaked it. They did it to punish him."

"Yes, well, to punish him certainly but the real hope was to flush him out. Any man with a son on death row would come forward...except him apparently."

"Why didn't they pick me?"

"I wouldn't allow that," she said with a shrug.

"That's a pretty cruel level of favoritism don't you think?" He sneered, unable to comprehend how a mother could choose which of her children to send to slaughter.

"You have a brilliant mind, Michael. I could see that in you from the time you started walking. Lincoln was always the brute, you-the brains. The Company needs brains."

"I won't do it, I won't work for the people who set my brother up," he said simply, still reeling from the cavalier way she'd mentioned Lincoln's execution moments before.

"Think about it, I'll leave my number with the front desk" she said as she got up, grabbing her purse from the table. "It's good to see you Michael."

XXXXX

Sara decided it was a good morning to pay her barista friend, Kayla, another visit.

She walked in and was greeted with the smell of toasted bread and roasted coffee beans. The warm burst of air as she opened the door felt good, sheltering her from the brutal cold outside. She gave her order and walked to the far counter to pick it up, standing comfortably with her hands in the pocket of her peacoat.

Kayla chatted with her while she was making her latte, normal small talk to start, but then she asked her about Lincoln; she'd seen a story about him on the news, and that his execution wasn't far away.

"Do you know him?" She asked with wide blue eyes.

"Yea," she nodded, "yea I do."

Kayla looked terrified.

"He's not a bad guy," Sara clarified, "I feel bad for him...wish I could do something to stop it."

Her face softened, "Are you gonna be there when they, ya know-?"

"Uh, yea," Sara looked down, "I have to, unfortunately."

"Wow," was all she could muster in response as she put a lid on the coffee, "that's gotta be hard."

"It is, I mean, I've seen people die before but this is different. This is watching someone be killed, not die of natural causes. I don't know. Feels different."

"Yea," she nodded sympathetically as she handed her the coffee, "but at least you'll be there for him. You know, at least he won't be alone in there."

"Yea," Sara shook her head, "I just wish I could do more...for him and his brother."

"His brother?" she questioned.

"Oh, uh yea," Sara forgot that it wasn't common knowledge to people outside of Fox River, "he's got a brother at Fox River too who's dealing with some...medical issues. Ya know, along with everything going on with Lincoln."

"Dang," Kayla shook her head, "sounds like you've got your hands full these days."

"Ha, always," she said humorlessly and gave a wave with her free hand, "thanks for the coffee."

"Sure thing, Dr. Tancredi, have a good one!"

"You too!"

She braced herself for the cold as she walked out and made it to her car. The drive was only a few minutes, but it didn't take long for her mind to go back to what Michael said the day before.

"There is an explanation, I just can't tell you yet."

What the heck was he talking about? She understood him wanting to wait until Lincoln was gone to go through with the surgery, but at least as far as she knew, he didn't intend to have it done at all. If he did, he would have said so, right? So they could schedule it? It wasn't a big mystery as to when Lincoln would die…they could get him scheduled for surgery now, the sooner the better.

Maybe he was still holding out hope that Lincoln would be exonerated? Maybe Veronica would find enough evidence in time? She considered this but couldn't accept it, it was too easy and didn't explain the confidence in Michael's voice when he proclaimed to Lincoln that he wouldn't let him die alone. That he'd "do whatever it takes."

She leaned her left elbow against the window as she drove on, frustrated by his cryptic communications with Lincoln. Why couldn't the man just say what was on his mind? Instead he left her intrigued and confused, which then made her feel silly for spending so much time trying to figure out what the hell he meant half the time. He was an enigma if there ever was one.

But that's partly why she liked him, whether she wanted to admit it or not. He was interesting and multi-dimensional, so many layers hidden beneath his cool blue eyes. He kept her guessing. Most of the inmates wore their hearts, and other body parts, on their sleeves; they weren't shy about coming right out with it. Flirting with her, making crude comments, asking for favors or special treatment, but not Michael. He kept his cards close, something she realized she could relate to. Maybe that's why it was so frustrating, normally she was the one being secretive and closed off...not being on the receiving end of it-trying to get someone to open up and failing.

She parked her car with one last huff, grabbed her coffee, and walked to the gate, "Morning Jeff."

"Mornin doc," he smiled and nodded.

She spent her walk into the building and down a maze of white hallways contemplating how to manipulate Michael into spilling the beans. He was definitely hiding something, and the curiosity was killing her. She cared about him and Lincoln and wanted to help. If there was a way for them both to live to see another year, she was all ears.

But he could be awfully secretive, that Michael Scofield. Heck, if she hadn't caught him mid-nosebleed they wouldn't even know about the tumor.

At least he was still hanging on strong…or seemed to be anyways. He hadn't mentioned any worsening symptoms and he hadn't blacked out again. In a few days, Lincoln would be gone, and Michael could re-evaluate his decision. The thought made her feel guilty-like she was waiting for Lincoln to die so she could try again to save Michael, but that was reality. She'd already tried to help Lincoln but it seemed like a dead end. Now, all she could do was try to convince Michael to keep fighting.

XXXXX

Except to make sure that he dies for what he did.

Michael was recounting the whole conversation in his head. Sucre was graciously letting him think in silence, he told him an old family member had dropped by and given him a lot to think about. Sucre nodded and kept quiet, knowing he needed time to process.

Dammit, Lincoln didn't do it! He had proof, a witness of sorts who flat out told him it was all a hoax. But knowing isn't the same as proving. There's no way Christina or anyone would come forward now and blow the whole thing open. The only thing that could legally save Lincoln now was if someone in The Company developed a conscience, and fast.

He wished he had someone to talk to about it, someone who knew about Lincoln's case...and his mother. He could call Veronica, he supposed. She grew up with them, knew his family situation, and he could see if she'd found anything more on Steadman…although he wasn't hopeful. With the escape being only two days away, he didn't really have time to go down the rabbit hole of The Company anyways.

Plus the thought of telling Veronica brought on a sense of something resembling embarrassment. Telling a childhood friend that your mother didn't want you and that's why you were always in foster care...well, it stung. Veronica would understand, he knew that logically, but it didn't help him escape the discomfort he felt at the thought of telling her.

Should he tell Lincoln? That question had been nagging him too. Could there be any more terrible news to deliver when he's essentially on his death bed? Why couldn't he just turn back the clock and forget this whole thing, forget that she was alive, forget the offer, and go through with the escape as planned. That was so much more simple. Now he had to consider who to tell, and who not to tell. Secrets generally aren't a good idea, unless they're really protecting someone but even then...he always preferred the truth, unadulterated. He sighed, knowing that he owed Lincoln that much. It was just a matter of when.

Sara had asked him about Veronica, he realized, but she never mentioned actually talking with her. He could ask; it was mid-afternoon so he had to go to the infirmary soon anyways. Yea, he decided he'd ask her to see if she knew anything about it. It would be the fastest way since Sara could pick up the phone to call Veronica whenever she wanted, not being a prisoner and all.

His mom was alive.

The revelation kept hitting him over and over again. Something that was so solid, so true, for so many years was a lie. And now she wanted him back, to work together, the mother-son dream team. He didn't even know what The Company did, let alone how his skills as an engineer could benefit them. He didn't want to know.

XXXXX

"Hey," Sara greeted Michael as he sat down.

Considering it was mid-afternoon, she realized it was quite dark outside. She looked out the window and realized it must have warmed up from the brutal cold she'd faced that morning in the name of delicious coffee. It was cloudier now, and big, fat snowflakes were falling outside her window. It was her favorite kind of winter day, cozy and still. The kind of day that made her feel like she should be in a cabin in the mountains somewhere, wrapped in flannel by the crackling fire and drinking hot cocoa. She'd never actually done that, but that was the dream, right? A perfect winter day.

"Hi," he replied, his gaze in the distance and mind obviously elsewhere.

She stopped, pulling herself out of her winter-time fantasy, "You ok?"

"Did you talk to Veronica?" he asked without preamble.

"Uh yea, a couple times, why?"

"Did she ever mention something called The Company?"

Her mind combed back through their conversations and remembered what Veronica had said about Hale, that the people on the list he wanted to give her worked for The Company.

"Yea, actually she did," she saw how agitated he was and pulled her chair up next to him, "Michael, what's going on?"

"My mom is alive."

Sara remembered seeing in his file that his mother had passed away years ago, her eyebrows furrowed, "What?"

"Yup, she came to visit me this morning. Apparently she faked her death when we were kids."

"Michael I...I don't know what to say."

"And now," he continued,"now she wants to save me," he scoffed.

"Save you?" she asked slowly.

"She works for The Company, and they want to offer me state-of-the-art brain surgery and a get-out-of-jail free card if I agree to work for them, forever."

"Alright, I'm confused," she started.

"Me too," he replied, staring off into space.

"What does The Company do?"

"I'm not sure."

"But they need an engineer?"

"Apparently."

"Badly enough to provide you with free surgery and somehow make your prison sentence disappear."

"Looks that way, yea."

She remembered what Veronica had said, "Michael, Veronica mentioned The Company once and from what she said, they don't sound like great people."

He perked up, "What did she say?"

Sara recounted the whole story about Hale, how Lincoln had been selected years ago to take the fall for Steadman's death, and how he had a list of everyone involved who worked for The Company...and the fact that, according to Hale, Steadman wasn't even dead...but they had no way to prove it since Veronica wasn't able to get the list.

He sat silently, contemplating. So did she. It was a lot to process.

After a moment he spoke again, "Huh, I guess there was a Company agent with a conscience."

"Yea, I guess so."

"But he died for it."

"Looks that way, yea," she replied sadly.

He spoke again, "Did she mention anything about Steadman having an appendectomy? That was the lead she had when I talked to her last."

"Yup she did," Sara confirmed, "but it was a dead end. They exhumed the body and the dental records matched those that Steadman had on file."

"Which could have easily been switched in a cover up."

She sighed, "The thought crossed my mind...and," she realized aloud, "Veronica told me that bit about the dental records before her encounter with Hale. If what Hale said is true and Steadman is alive, it makes everything else kind of a moot point. We shouldn't be looking for evidence of "who did it" we should be looking for breadcrumbs leading to a living, breathing Steadman."

"True," he agreed, lost in thought.

"So," Sara leaned back in her chair and started summarizing out loud, hoping it would make more sense than it did in her head, "both of your parents worked for The Company, who selected Lincoln to take the fall for a crime he didn't commit. And now, your mom wants you to work for them and is willing to save your life in the process...but not Lincoln's."

"Sounds about right."

"But...why?"

"Which part?"

"I mean, all of it, but specifically, why Lincoln, and why go to such extreme lengths to save you? No offense."

"None taken," he reassured, "all she said was that, "A mind like mine doesn't come around often," but still."

"Hmm," she nodded, and then remembered Veronica's phrasing more clearly, "Veronica said that Hale told her, "Lincoln was selected," which I thought was strange. Like he was just picked specifically a long time ago and now they have to follow through."

"Well, she did kind of explain that part," his voice trailed off.

"And?" she prompted.

"Our father, who was supposedly an alcoholic but wasn't, leaked Company information to Ecofield, the company that Steadman owned. I guess that little leak combined with the threat that Ecofield posed, resulted in a scandal. I'm not sure, but it sounds like Lincoln was chosen as the fall guy to flush out our father...that obviously didn't work."

"They thought the execution would flush out your dad? That's why Lincoln is here?"

"Yup. He leaks information and runs, they need to flush him out and make sure that Steadman's company can't pose a threat. Two birds with one stone-use Lincoln as bait for our dad and make Steadman legally dead."

"Why not just kill Steadman?"

"My guess...he's the vice president's brother and there are a lot of politicians in The Company. Maybe they made a deal with the V.P to spare his life...maybe she's part of The Company too, I don't know."

His eyes were out the window, watching the snow falling down, each flake dropping slowly, without any wind to disrupt its path. She watched them too; a mesmerizing distraction, giving her thoughts some space to breathe.

After a moment she broke the silence, "So...are you gonna do it?"

"What?" his eyes came back to her

"The surgery."

He shook his head.

"In this case, I can't say I blame you. Sounds like you can't trust The Company as far as you can throw them."

He nodded tiredly and her heart sank. As if this poor guy needed one more thing thrown his way. God she couldn't imagine, living your whole life thinking your mom had died and finding out that she'd chosen to live without you. Her mom hadn't been a winner, but at least she was around...heavily medicated, but around.

She glanced over to the door and saw a guard stationed there, looking the other way. She stood up and rolled the privacy curtain between the window and Michael, just in case.

"Come here," she opened her arms and he stood up and came into them.

"I'm so sorry, Michael, for all of this," she wrapped her arms around him tightly.

"Me too," he said sadly. She thought she heard a sniffle, but didn't want him to know that she noticed.

Instead, she stood there, allowing his head to rest against her shoulder with his eyes buried into the crook of her neck.

After a moment she felt the hot, wetness of tears appear there as he started to shake in her arms. She held him tighter, feeling tears welling in her own eyes, cradling his head to her. There had to be something she could do to make this right. One man couldn't be expected to bear all of this in a lifetime let alone a few days.

"I'm sorry," he whispered between shaky breaths, backing away to wipe his eyes.

"No, Michael," she said in disbelief, pulling his face up so she could meet his gaze, "don't be sorry. You don't have to be sorry for any of this," she used her thumb to brush a stray tear from his cheek, her hands cupping his face.

"We'll figure this out," she said with certainty, even though she had no idea what to do.

"Sara," he sniffled, "if things were different, if you and I had met some other way do you, do you think-"

"Michael," she interrupted, locking eyes with him, "what do you really want to ask me?" he needed to learn to not be so damn cryptic, to say what he meant.

He exhaled a big breath and whispered, "Do you care about me? In more than the normal doctor/patient sense?"

She smiled, he finally did it. His eyes met hers, open and vulnerable, not calculated and secretive. There was no mask. She'd managed to chip away even the tiniest fragment of the walls he surrounded himself with.

"What?" he asked, looking nervous now that she hadn't responded.

She shook her head with a small laugh, unable to comprehend how he still couldn't see how much she cared, and drew him closer, slowly pressing her lips to his. Words obviously weren't enough to get through his thick skull, so she finally took the leap to show him. Her heart thudded loudly in her chest as he kissed back, slow and sweet, wrapping his arms most securely around her waist, holding her to him.

A voice inside begged her to stop. She was torturing herself, right? This was torture. Falling in love with an inmate was a bad, bad idea, especially one who was terminally ill and had no intention of getting treatment. But she couldn't bring herself to care, and let herself enjoy the taste of him.

After a moment, she pulled back reluctantly and looked in his eyes, "Yes, Michael. I like you in more than a professional sense...although" she smirked, "you're still my favorite patient too."

He smiled.

"But," she said firmly, "the priority right now should be keeping you and your brother alive. Everything else," she held his hands in hers, "will fall into place."

She had to believe that-she wasn't giving up on him.

He gave a small smile and nod, and she saw a glimmer of hope in those stunning blue eyes for the first time in a while. They'd figure this out.


	10. Chapter 10

Michael woke up and was instantly assaulted by worrying thoughts and an aching head. The escape was tomorrow. He rolled over with a groan and pulled the pillow over his head, taking a deep breath through his nose, smelling the scent of sweat mingled with laundry soap from his sheets. He didn't even realize he was sweating, but laying on his stomach he could see the light sheen glistening on his arm. He must have been too hot in his sleep…or had nightmares he couldn't remember. He took several more deep breaths, trying to calm down and slow his pulsing temples. His mind was always racing these days…except when Sara had kissed him. His mind went to a blissful mush when that happened. There had been no pain, no stress, and now that he'd had a taste of it, of her, he knew he'd never stop wanting more.

He replayed the moment over and over in his head as he lay there, remembering the feel of her under his hands, the warm softness of her lips against his. He'd felt so broken and hopeless in that moment. He'd also been embarrassed. He never liked crying in front of anyone, ever, but the moment she'd opened her arms and offered compassion, the stream of tears had been unstoppable. A dam inside him had finally broken under all the stress and the water had to flow, and she'd been there, showing him nothing but love and support. She didn't make him feel small or weak, she made him feel...better. She always made him feel better, and that realization was oddly bittersweet.

He loved her, and he was leaving tomorrow. There was no way to know if he'd ever see her again. Did he dare hope that the escape wouldn't be the end for them? That he'd see her again? He tried to fathom how that would even happen, and the only explanation he could think of involved her coming to Panama with him, and he couldn't expect that from her. She had a life here.

The reverse wasn't possible either, him coming back to the states. There wasn't a single plausible situation he could imagine where he'd live in the U.S. again, as a free and legal citizen…not after this. He'd already made some enemies in prison and was sure he'd make a lot more of them in law enforcement once his plan was set into motion.

Then again, he thought as Christina's words echoed in his mind.

"They could get me out of prison?"

"Oh, child's play."

He cringed, remembering that there was an option out there for him to live in the states again, but it came with strings attached, strings that would make a puppet out of him and he didn't want that to happen. He refused to work for The Company, especially since they refused to help Lincoln. That was the only deal he'd accept. If she'd just agreed to pardon him too this whole mess would be over. Sure, he didn't revel in the thought of having brain surgery performed by Company doctors, but he'd do it if Lincoln got a get-out-of-jail-free card in the process. But no, it couldn't be that simple.

He thought of Sara again as his hands fisted the bed sheets into a ball, squeezing them tight in frustration. Why couldn't the timing have been better? Why couldn't he have met her when he was, "Michael Scofield, Engineer," and not, "Michael Scofield, Prisoner"? It wasn't exactly the best first impression and he wanted to do so much more for her, to make her happy.

But even despite his flaws, she'd kissed him, and he reveled in that fact. She saw through the prison blues, the newly acquired criminal record, and the walls he had to put up to survive in this place and saw…him.

Was there any way he could ever make her understand how much that meant to him? Every day he put on a mask to deal with the other prisoners, but with her, he allowed himself to actually have feelings. Granted, it wasn't total freedom and he certainly wasn't an open book to her. He was well aware of that fact and knew it frustrated her; the unanswered questions, the evasiveness…but he didn't think she realized how much more open and vulnerable he was when he was around her.

He had to tell her somehow, but professing his feelings in person with her today might be a tad suspicious; it would sound like a goodbye when she didn't know he was leaving. A letter might be better, he decided. He could write it today and leave it on her desk when they were escaping.

His chest tightened at the thought, the whole "being vulnerable" thing not being a favorite experience of his, but he owed her that much. He owed her a hell of a lot more, but this was all he could offer, and it suddenly became the most important task of the day. Everything else was ready to go, to get them over the wall and as far away as possible, but not this. He had to tell her as best as he could, that his feelings for her were genuine, as were his regrets. He was a man of few words and was sure the letter would be short and simple, but he had to try. He hoped she'd at least appreciate the effort, the attempt at an explanation, no matter how insufficient it may be.

He also supposed he should call Christina to let her know his decision regarding her offer. He'd settled on calling her that in his head instead of "Mom" - she didn't deserve that title anymore. But did it matter? The escape would give her his answer anyways. In a few days they'd be all over the news, and she'd obviously put the pieces together that he'd chosen to forgo her little proposition.

He rolled back over onto his back, staring at the rungs of the top bunk above him. His head was still throbbing, and he was too hot. The air inside was always a bit humid from so many bodies packed into a small space, and he could feel the thin, sticky sheen of sweating lingering on his chest and forehead. He tried his best to ignore it, knowing he only had one more night in there anyways.

"You awake?" Sucre asked quietly from above him.

"Yea," he answered.

"My stomach is turning."

He perked up, "Like you're getting sick?" he questioned.

"No I'm just so nervous, bro! What if something goes wrong?"

"It'll all work out," he reassured.

"How can you know?" he paused, "Aren't you scared too? Don't tell me I'm wimping out over here."

Michael smiled at that, "I can't say I'm completely at ease, no, but it's a good plan."

"Yea, I know," Sucre sighed and then grew quiet again.

It was a good plan, and it had to be tomorrow, everything was in place. Sure, he was nervous too-there we're still some unknowns and the possibility of human error that couldn't be predicted, but he tried to keep his cool in front of the other escapees so they didn't doubt him. They needed to see him as a leader, one that wasn't to be messed with. This was his escape. Thinking that, he realized he sounded like a whiny child being possessive over a favorite toy, but it was the truth. He planned it all out, pouring so much time and mental energy into it, and he'd be damned if anyone else tried to take the wheel, putting his and Lincoln's future in jeopardy. Part of being a leader was being sure-footed and confident, so that's how he acted, even though his true feelings weren't quite so certain. Anything could go wrong, but they had to try.

He sighed and let his mind wander again, hearing the other inmates chatting and hollering outside.

Why the hell didn't Christina care that her son was about to die? It had been bugging him ever since their conversation.

His last memories of Lincoln and Christina being together was watching them holding hands as she lay in a hospital bed. Michael had only visited her a few times and when he did, he was so young that he probably just spent time playing with toys he'd brought from home or reading the kids magazines they had there. In fact, yea, he could picture the colorful pages with word searches and spot-the-difference pictures. That's what he'd done when he'd visited her in the hospital.

But Lincoln had spent so much time there with her- talking, sitting, just being present. And how did she repay him? By not giving a damn that he was about to be executed. It didn't make sense.

It also made him wonder at what point in their lives Christina had joined The Company. Was it when she got sick? Years before? He tried to imagine a world in which the docile, sickly pale women occupying that hospital bed had been a Company agent for years and it just seemed so...impossible.

He knew his mind was bouncing all over the place like a person gone mad. He needed something, anything else to occupy it. He tried thinking happier, less obsessive thoughts but it was no use, he needed to get outside of his own mind and talk to someone.

"Hey Sucre?" he called out.

"Yea?" he replied from the top bunk.

"Can we play a game?"

"What kinda game?"

"Anything. I spy. I don't know, a word game or something, or maybe trivia. Anything. I need a distraction."

"Ok," he said slowly, "I spyyyy something, gray."

"The ceiling?" Michael guessed with a smile.

"Yea! How'd you know?" He replied cheerfully, hanging his head over the bunk to smile at Michael.

"Ok, maybe we need a different game."

XXXXX

What the hell was she thinking? Sara scolded herself as she drove into work for the day. She kissed him. Did she really regret it? No, and it was a good kiss too, but the implications of the kiss are what was bothering her- the meaning behind it, what would have happened if they'd been caught…and the fact that he'd kissed back. But that confirmation of his feelings didn't bother her, in fact it made her feel happier than she had in a long time, but it certainly complicated things, hence her current state of overanalyzing the whole situation.

They had feelings for each other, and that fact was as plain as day now.

As if it hadn't been before, she mocked herself…but still. They'd cemented that fact into something physical, no longer just the elusive smiles elicited from one another, or the buzzing tension in the air when they were confined in the infirmary together. It was something tangible.

She sighed as her eyes lingered lazily on the road, the familiar route lulling her mind into complacency, allowing her thoughts to wander.

What did she expect to get out of this? She was in dangerous waters, getting romantically involved not only with a prisoner, but with a patient.

I sure know how to pick 'em, she thought with dismay and a slight shake of her head, remembering a few of her less than impressive boyfriends over the years. Being involved with emotionally damaged and unavailable men seemed to be her specialty, which is why she'd spent the better part of a year alone. It had done her good, or so she had thought, to spend some time being intentionally single. It was simpler; she went to work, came home after a long day, took care of errands and household tasks herself, and did it all again the next day. Long hours on the job didn't make it easy to date anyways, and she'd grown used to her solo routine…but she'd be lying if she said she didn't miss a little human contact.

Maybe that's why she kissed him. She missed the intimacy, and that was normal, right? But still, her mind nagged her, that wasn't professional. She'd kissed a patient…at work. The thought brought on a combination of guilt and a tingle of excitement she couldn't deny.

It was wrong, which of course made it more appealing. Maybe she didn't want to think about what she expected to get out of it, or where things were going. That was the fun part, the beginning of a relationship where everything is exciting and new, and she didn't want to ruin that by worrying too much about the future. She really wanted to just enjoy it for what it was in the moment, especially because a future with Michael was uncertain. He was in prison for starters.

Dammit, she sighed, knowing her logical brain was starting to win the argument, much to her hearts' dismay. She forced herself to start making a mental list of why getting involved with Michael Scofield was a terrible idea, reasons to not pursue anything that would result in more mind-numbing kisses, and she was honestly surprised at her own internal assessment.

The tumor was the front-runner in her reasons to not be with him. Not the prison sentence. Not the fact that she was his doctor. And the tumor itself wasn't her concern, but the fact that he didn't seem to want treatment. If he never decided to go through with the surgery it would kill him; she'd do whatever she could to help him until the end, but ultimately be disappointed and angry. Angry at him for not realizing how much people care about him and want him to live a long and healthy life.

But his status as her patient and as a prisoner seemed oddly insignificant, like she could shrug them off easily if the situation for them to actually date each other presented itself. She tried to imagine it: a real date with Michael Scofield. A swarm of butterflies erupted in her stomach.

She sighed, trying to suppress those feelings, and turned the last corner onto the street leading to Fox River and was met with a scene like nothing she could have imagined. She had never seen so many cop cars in her life. The whole lot of Fox River was blinking blue and red in the soft morning light as she parked her car and got out.

She walked towards the chaos, searching through the sea of blue uniforms to find any of the guards she might recognize. She finally spotted Mack and went over to him.

"What's going on?"

"Inmates escaped."

"Escaped?" she replied in shock, her heart racing, "how many? Who?"

"Not sure yet, but it sounds like eight people got out."

"Eight!? Oh my God," she took a moment to regain her composure, "uh, is there anything I can do to help?"

"Well," he pointed to the infirmary, "I'd say go do what you normally do, but that's where they broke out of."

Her jaw dropped, "They escaped from the infirmary? How!?"

"Not sure yet," he rested his hands on his belt, "there's a bunch of cops up there right now though. Maybe a few F.B.I guys too, so if you head up there it'll probably be a zoo."

"Ok," she sighed, "thanks Mack," she turned to walk away.

"Dr. Tancredi?" she heard Warden Pope's voice behind her.

She turned towards the sound of the voice and saw him emerge from the sea of officers, "Yes sir?"

"Are you alright?

"What? Oh, yea I'm fine. I mean, I wasn't here when anything happened so…"

"Good, good," he nodded, "I'm very glad to hear that."

"How did they get in?" she shook her head, knowing she wasn't making any sense, "To the infirmary I mean." She knew she locked the door last night when she left. In fact, she and Katie had left together, so Katie saw her lock it too.

"They're checking into that now, but it doesn't look like there are any signs of forced entry."

"Do they know who all got out?" she almost didn't want to ask, fearing for the safety of everyone within a ten-mile radius.

"No, not a complete list yet. All we know so far is Scofield, Burrows, Sucre, and T-bag."

Her stomach dropped through her feet. She couldn't speak. All she could do was offer a nod as she turned and ran back to her car, her mind reeling. Michael was gone. And Lincoln...and a bunch of others, but...Michael.

She sat in silence, gripping the steering wheel as if her life depended on it, her breathing shaky and shallow. Her mind was a jumbled mess, so many questions and trains of thought that couldn't make it more than a few feet without veering off track. She willed her brain to form a coherent thought, and Michael's words from before popped into her head.

"There is an explanation, I just can't tell you yet."

Well, this was it. They were making a run for it. Lincoln was almost out of time and this was their only option, this is what they were forced to do. She had so many questions: how the heck did they get into and out of the infirmary? That was still bothering her, the lack of forced entry means they had to have had a key...but how could they have copied it? They were in prison, it's not like they could just pop into Home Depot real quick and make a copy...unless someone on the outside did it for them?

And where were they now? Did they have people on the outside to help them? Fake and passports? Money?

She gripped the steering wheel even tighter, her knuckles turning white. She looked up at the chaos happening outside- officers were buzzing around everywhere, blinking lights and people yelling orders. The officers were all trying to stay calm and follow protocol but not succeeding, she could see their wide eyes filled with panic and fear. Many had their arms crossed or hands on their belts, their hat brims low, shifting their weight from side to side. They were anxious and closed off, trying to swallow their feelings, their normal human emotions for the sake of looking professional. She watched them with sadness, wondering when it became normal to not feel anything. But that's something the officers and the prisoners had in common, having to put up a wall every day to hide behind...prisoners like Michael, her chest constricted with the painful realization.

Why had he left her? That was the biggest, and most selfish question on her mind. She was mad. He'd weaseled his way into her heart, made her care for him and then just checked out, leaving her hurt and confused, and feeling oddly alone. She didn't know if they were technically in a relationship before this, but she knew one thing, she felt worse than any breakup she'd had before. He left her, right after she'd finally gotten confirmation that he cared...at least, she thought that's what the kiss was.

She hated that her reaction was so strong, they barely knew each other when it came down to it. But that didn't stop her from leaning her head against the wheel and blinking hard as a few hot tears fell, sounding like a raindrop falling on the seat.

This was too much, and far too many emotions battling for her attention at once. Her anger started fading, it was too much work to maintain, and she just felt sad and worried, wondering where they were. Could she even blame him for escaping? Would she have done anything different?

Those were deep questions and ones she didn't trust herself to answer honestly. He was risking his life, in several ways, to save his brother. That deep need to help others was something she could understand, which only convinced her further that if she was in his shoes and the opportunity arose, she would have done the same thing. Realizing that didn't make her feel any better or worse, but it shed light on why she'd felt angry. She wasn't mad that he'd escaped, she was mad that he lied to her. He'd been earning her trust a little more each day, building it up slowly from the day they'd met, never giving her a reason to doubt that he was an honest man. All those days to build it up, and only one morning to send it crashing down.

She felt betrayed, but still couldn't bring herself to wish ill on him. She sniffled tiredly and wiped a stray tear from her cheek. Dammit, she was still worried about him, and was growing more concerned by the minute. His tumor alone could kill him at pretty much any moment, without the added stresses of life on the run and he knew that. She'd made it perfectly clear that he needed the surgery as soon as possible, but he'd chosen to run anyways to save Lincoln.

She sighed, and despite her frustration, she truly hoped they were ok, that they had help on the outside and money and fake . Not T-bag so much, but the rest of them. Even Sucre was a good guy who made a bad move, she wasn't worried about him holding up any more gas stations in the future.

She wiped her eyes again, using the sleeve of her coat to dry her face completely, and looked up towards the infirmary window, knowing that she had to go in and see what happened. Her coat suddenly felt like it was suffocating her, so she shrugged it off along with her scarf, grabbed her keys and slammed the car door. It was an unseasonably warm day anyways, so she didn't miss her winter gear as she marched up to the building, past what felt like a million police officers, flashing her badge to any of them who questioned her clearance level.

When she finally got to the infirmary, slightly out of breath, she was met with several people working on the door knob. They were examining it and the door itself thoroughly.

"Excuse me," she started, flashing her badge again, "I'm Dr. Tancredi, what happened?"

"Well," one of the guys started, "doesn't look like forced entry."

"So…?"

"So, it looks like they just walked right in."

She crossed her arms, "That's impossible, I locked it."

"Are you sure?" he asked skeptically, with an arrogance that annoyed her.

"Yes, I'm sure," she replied firmly, staring daggers at him, "the nurse, Katie, was here with me, she saw me lock it. It was locked."

"Then they must have had a key."

"How? Only the medical staff has keys and we all have them on us at all times," her voice trailed off, remembering the case of the missing keys a few days before.

The guy looked at her questioningly, "What?"

She composed herself, "Nothing."

She'd been in contact with so many inmates the day she'd lost her keys; all of the guys involved in the kitchen game of poker and stabbing, Tweener, Michael of course…but not Sucre, T-bag, or Lincoln. Hmm. She'd have to ask the Warden in a bit who else had escaped.

But even if they stole them how could that have helped them? She'd found her keys again not long after they went missing and had them with her ever since. She bit her bottom lip, contemplating; that was gonna bug her all day.

She continued past the skeptical door knob enthusiast and into the infirmary, looking around. For the most part it looked the same, besides the gaping hole of the window that used to have bars on it. And there were far too many people in there at one time, going through everything. She wanted them all to leave, this was her space and they were invading it, which she realized was a childish thing to think, but she couldn't help it. This was her turf and they were tearing it apart like she was a criminal.

She began combing through the room herself and started at her desk, which looked untouched, and she almost moved on to the next area, but something caught her eye. There was an envelope under her keyboard, with one corner of it sticking out from underneath, exposing itself. She glanced around the room- all of the officers were distracted by the window, so she grabbed the envelope.

"Sara," was all that was scrolled on it, in handwriting she didn't recognize. Her curiosity was piqued, but she couldn't open it here, not with all the officers nearby who would want to bag it as evidence. So, she snuck it into her coat pocket and left. With all the people in there now there's no way she could get any work done anyways.

She headed back to her car and ran into Pope again, "Excuse me, sir."

"Yes, Doctor?"

"I uh, I might head home for a bit if that's ok. The infirmary is pretty well occupied at the moment, not much room for me in there," not to mention the fact that her insides were still a swirling mess of despair, anger, empathy, and whatever else might pop up – probably not the best frame of mind to be in when she's at work.

"Of course, go on home and be safe. We'll call if we need anything."

"Thank you, and sir?"

"Yes?"

"Do they have a full list of escapees yet?"

"Looks like it, yes."

"Can I ask, who?"

He nodded, "From what we can tell, it was Scofield, Burrows, Sucre, Bagwell, Franklin, Abruzzi, Apolskis, and Haywire."

She furrowed her brows and made a mental note of all of them as he rattled them off. Seemed like an odd combination of people-not a group she would have expected to form an alliance. Interesting.

"Thank you," she mumbled in response, still lost in thought and confusion as she turned around, trying to piece together all of the "whys" and "hows" surrounding the escape as she walked back to her car.

She got in and pulled the envelope out, staring at it for a moment before opening it- wondering what it could contain but at the same time, not sure if she really wanted to know. She was half tempted to drive home and then open it, letting the curiosity build while she drove, but her fingers slid into the envelope and pulled out a paper that was folded neatly into thirds. She unfolded it and read every word.

"Sara,

There are so many things on my mind, so many things I want to say but I'll start with this: I'm sorry for involving you in all of this.

I came here to save Lincoln, and I have to follow through with that intention. I never anticipated my diagnosis, and certainly never anticipated how much you would mean to me.

I'm so sorry; sorry that the timing couldn't have been different, and sorry that I can't offer you the life you deserve. I hope you can forgive me, and I hope I get to see you again someday.

Michael"


	11. Chapter 11

They found the grave. Nothing had gone as planned so far, but the group had finally made it to the grave marking where Michael had buried a change of clothes, car keys, money, and fake passports for them. Well, for he and Lincoln anyways- it was never supposed to be eight people and he didn't have enough stuff for all of them, but it would have to do.

They hadn't slept all night. With the police and sniffer dogs after them, always at their heels, they hadn't had a chance to stop. The barking and foot shuffling had gotten too close for comfort a number of times, and he could feel the paranoia settling deeply into every bone of his body. Sleep was out of the question for the foreseeable future, and the resulting delusion was setting in for the long haul. He was desperately thirsty and beyond hunger, but accepted that it would be a while before either of those discomforts could be remedied.

They were down to five men; Michael, Lincoln, C-note, Sucre and Abruzzi. T-bag had gotten his hand chopped off, thanks to Abruzzi, and had been left behind. Tweener and Haywire were on their own too.

It was that fickle time of year between winter and spring, some days warm, other days still brutally cold and snowy. He thanked whatever higher power that might be for the warm day of the escape and the not-so-cold morning they had now. They'd been running so much that he'd built up a nice sheen of sweat beneath his gray long sleeved shirt, but his hands were exposed and ice cold. It was a strange combination, and one he never particularly cared for; a boiling core and cold, exposed limbs. He stuck his hands in his pockets to warm them.

The group approached the grave site and knew they had to dig, and they had to do it quickly. Under the grave marked, "E. Chance Woods" were all the supplies they would need, their only real chance of flying under the radar and leaving the country.

Michael sighed; this wasn't Plan A. Plan A was the jet that Abruzzi was supposed to get for them. Michael couldn't blame him though, the jet had been there as promised, it just left without them. If it hadn't, they'd be in Panama by now. But that's why Michael had a plan B, which boiled down to him and Lincoln using the passports, money and clothes to hitch a few second-class bus rides across the border into Mexico, and then to Panama.

He looked over at Sucre and C-note, who were already hard at work digging, and felt a stab of guilt. Once they got what they needed from the grave, Michael and Lincoln were taking off, splitting from the other three men, but they didn't know that yet. They had to suspect it, Michael hoped, but he'd never flat out told them what the plan was after they got away from Fox River. He just silently prayed that the split would be amicable.

Abruzzi would be ok, he figured, with all of his mob connections and back-channel ways of contacting people. Sucre and C-note he honestly wasn't sure. But, this was all he'd promised them- getting them out of Fox River. He could at least find solace in the fact that he'd held up his end of the bargain, even if it felt like he was leaving them hanging.

Now that they weren't running, he realized that his head hurt. A lot. The clanking sound of the shovels hitting an occasional pebble was almost too much to bear. He put his shovel in the ground and leaned on it for support, squinting his eyes shut and pressing on the bridge of his nose.

Lincoln looked over, "You ok?"

"Yea, I'll be fine," he lied.

"Take a break man, we got it," he ordered.

Michael brought his hand up to his face, wiping under his nose with the gray sleeve of the shirt. There was blood on it. He sniffed quickly and pressed under his nose again, turning away so no one would notice.

He started to feel light headed and bent over at the hips, then sat down, figuring it was better to just sit down instead of collapsing.

"Hey Papi, you ok?" Sucre asked as he paused his digging to look over, wiping the sweat off his brow.

"Yea, just a little light headed is all." He pinched his nose and tilted his head back, "Chin up, Michael," he heard Sara's words in his head.

Sara. A wave of fresh guilt and remorse came over him. Guilt was a common emotion for him these days and it was wearing on him. Each time he thought of the people he was wronging and a new wave came over him, he felt more tired, more worn down, like he was a rock on a gusty shore, wave after wave taking a little more of him with it.

He wondered what she was thinking right now. Was she angry? Disappointed? Indifferent? He considered this for a moment; no, she wouldn't be indifferent, he decided. She was a thinker, a woman with opinions. He just really wanted to know what that opinion was. He tried imagining being in her shoes-how would he feel? The first word that popped into his head was, "abandoned," and his stomach sank. That was the last thing he wanted her to feel, to think that she was unwanted. Granted, that was probably his own insecurities rearing their ugly heads, remnants from his childhood being left by his parents and feeling generally unwanted by the foster parents he'd been stuck with. Maybe it was different for her? His heart constricted, knowing that his hope was waning.

Did he have a chance with her again, ever? If not to pursue romantic interest, then at least to be friends? To be forgiven? The thought of her hating him for the rest of his life was almost too much to bear.

He wondered if she found the letter, and if she did, if it even came close to being enough. He knew it wasn't, but he had to hold on to a shred of hope that it was at least a start, an olive branch extended, and that she'd take it, even for a moment, before deciding to let him go.

Lincoln pulled a backpack out from under the pile of dirt, "Here," he tossed it to Michael, who snapped his mind back to the present, opened the bag, and started rummaging through.

There were several bags buried under the grave of E. Chance Woods, but this one had the money, fake passports, and keys to the car waiting nearby for him and Lincoln. He tucked the contents back inside and slid the straps onto his shoulders; no one else needed to see what was in there.

C-note pulled out another bag and unzipped it. It was full of clothes; that's all that was in it if he remembered correctly, so no need for him to snatch it away and rummage through for more important things. He was glad, since he didn't want to make a scene or look suspicious, hogging the valuable items even though they were all technically his anyways.

Michael slowly stood up, making sure he wasn't about to faint in the process, and went over, "That was supposed to be enough clothes to last me and Lincoln a week, so there should be enough in there for each of us."

"Thanks, man," C-note replied with a nod, dumping the bag on the ground so everyone could see.

They all sorted through and started changing their clothes. Michael opted for the dress shirt, tan jacket, and pants, along with a blue tie and baseball cap. It made him feel human again, like he was getting dressed for a normal day at work.

That feeling would hopefully help him blend in, if they act like civilians, and that's how people would see them; fake it til you make it. He rolled up the gray prison shirt that now had blood smears on the sleeve, and tucked it deep into the biggest pocket of the backpack. He didn't want Lincoln or anyone else to see the blood and worry.

"Psst-guys," Abruzzi whispered anxiously from by the gravesite, "we got company," he nodded to the road into the cemetery.

A large, black sedan was headed their way. It was unmarked, but might as well have had, "FBI" written all over it.

The five of them grabbed the bags and clothes and ran for the bushes nearby, arranging themselves so everyone could see the vehicle approaching. They crouched in silence as the vehicle pulled up next to the grave and parked. The engine shut off and two agents got out, the sound of their shutting car doors the only thing breaking the silence. None of the guys moved an inch, a simple mistake like stepping on a tree branch would have given them away.

The sun was hot, Michael realized, as he squinted to watch and noticed the sweat starting to bead at his hairline. He wiped it carefully with his jacket sleeve, not wanting to make a noise. When he pulled his arm away he saw a mix of sweat and dirt smeared on the tan jacket sleeve, he sighed, more disappointed than he should be that his nice, new jacket was already stained.

His attention went back to the agents and fixated on one in particular. He was tall, slender, with a narrow face and sunglasses. He had an air of confidence and intelligence that Michael found unsettling. The agent slowly, yet confidently went straight to the grave for E. Chance Woods and stared down into it.

How did he know? Michael wondered. He'd never mentioned the grave or the name on the headstone to anyone.

The whole scene was eerily calm and quiet. The faint sound of breathing next to him, a few birds chirping above them, a soft breeze, the agent calmly pondering. But the air was buzzing, every muscle in his body was primed to flee at a moment's notice.

The agent removed his sunglasses and lifted his gaze to scan around. Michael held his breath; he was bound to spot them, it's not like the sparse bushes provided any real coverage. The agent looked down at the grave again and said something to the other agent that Michael couldn't hear well enough to understand. Maybe he wouldn't see them, maybe-

The agent looked up again, this time locking eyes with him. The corner of his mouth turned up in a devious smile and his eyes narrowed.

"We have to go," Michael whispered to the group before he could will his legs to move, still holding the agent's eyes.

The group turned and started bolting deeper into the woods, the uneven ground riddled with rocks and tree roots, making it impossible to travel swiftly. The bright light from the sun didn't help his throbbing headache, which was making itself known with every step, pounding in rhythm with his feet against the ground.

They had a head start and didn't hear any footsteps behind them. Once they were a good distance away, Michael paused and glanced back, seeing the blur of the taller, black-coated agent running, still a good thirty yards away. The agent looked up and paused, standing next to a tree, and stared back.

Michael felt exposed. Eye contact from even that far away made him feel like the agent could see right through him, reading his mind, and knowing his next move. Why wasn't he still running after them? He looked smug, like he already had them in custody, like they didn't stand a chance.

With a slight smirk, the agent took off after them again, drawing his weapon from his hip.

They kept moving, and when the woods finally came to an end, they found themselves in what appeared to be a quaint little downtown area. The sidewalks were bustling with people out and about, shopping and chatting, enjoying the unseasonably warm day.

They were all panting. Between breaths, Michael addressed the group with a sense of urgency, gesturing to their upgraded outfits, "We're civilians, just civilians. We have to blend in."

They all nodded as their breathing slowed, and started to split off, putting some distance between each other but still traveling with a herd-like awareness, always knowing where the other members of their group were.

Michael's eyes darted side to side- he tried not to. That would look suspicious. He pulled down the brim of his cap, trying to hide his face as much as possible, and to hide his eyes from the sun, that relentless, painfully bright sun.

Lincoln fell into step beside him, wearing large sunglasses and walking with ease. Michael tried to imitate his stride, calm and cool; fake it til you make it. He noticed the sunglasses with envy; the light was piercing his eyes as if he had a hangover from hell. He squinted until they were barely open enough to see, relying on his peripheral vision, keeping Lincoln's blurry outline at his side.

They eventually found themselves in an abandoned warehouse and he breathed a sigh of relief. It was darker in there, and a bit cooler. The other members of their group arrived shortly after and he said a silent, "Thank you," glad to have teammates with a brain; splitting up while still keeping an eye on him and Lincoln couldn't have been easy.

Michael slung the backpack off his shoulders, and sat down, willing the throbbing in his head to go away.

"You ok, man?" Lincoln asked again.

He didn't reply.

Lincoln sat down next to him, resting his elbows on his knees, "You did it, you know? You got me outta there, no reason you can't take care of yourself now and do what you gotta do."

"I can't go to the hospital here if that's what you're suggesting," the threat of the capable agent still fresh in his mind. He couldn't help it and turned to look behind him, into the sunlight outside the warehouse, seeing nothing but dirt. He had a feeling the urge to look over his shoulder was going to be a tough habit to break, becoming more engrained in him each day they were on the run.

Lincoln looked over at him, "There's gotta be something."

Michael thought of Christina's offer. He hadn't even told Lincoln yet that she was still alive, not wanting to add to the current mess they were in. He looked down and fidgeted with the loop on top of the backpack that sat between his feet.

"We have to get to Panama so you're free, then we can figure something out."

"You don't look good, man."

"Thanks," he replied sarcastically.

"I mean it. You look sick and I know your heads hurting," he paused a moment, "you should at least call Sara."

"What?" he asked incredulously.

"I'm not stupid, Mike. She cares about you and knows what's been going on, I'd bet my life on it that she'd be willing to help, at least point us in the right direction of what to do."

"Well, I don't exactly have her number. We never got to the whole, "Going on a date and exchanging numbers" part."

"She'd probably have given you a fake one anyways," he retorted with a smirk.

Michael rolled his eyes, "Thanks, that's really making me feel better."

"I'm just saying, we could buy a cheap phone and you could find the infirmary number somewhere I'm sure. It's public information. Call her and then dump the phone so they can't trace it."

"What if someone else answers?"

"Then you hang up and try again later," he said with a shrug.

He sighed, exasperated, "She's just going to tell me I need surgery."

"Maybe. And if she does, maybe she could look into it for you, find a doctor across the border who knows what they're doing and give you their information."

"I guess," he agreed reluctantly, his hands still wrapped through the loop of the backpack, anchoring him.

The thought of having brain surgery done in Mexico or Panama just sounded like a bad idea. Christina's offer still hung in the back of his mind. He didn't like the thought of that either, but did he dislike it so much that he'd rather die instead? He had a lot to think about, and not a lot of time to make a decision.


	12. Chapter 12

Sara folded the letter up and stuck it back in the envelope, tossing it onto the passenger seat next to her. He hopes to see her again someday...well, she wasn't holding out much hope at this point. Ever since she'd found out that he was one of the escaped inmates, the back of her mind had been churning out bad scenario after bad scenario. With his diagnosis, he had weeks at best; she felt her chest constrict, already preparing her to grieve. Dammit Michael, are you trying to get yourself killed?

She didn't know what to think, so without rational thoughts to keep her emotions at bay, they were running rampant. There was nothing she could do to make this better, she didn't know where he was, if he was ok, and had no way of contacting him. Her only hope, she supposed, was to follow the story on the news and get updates from the Warden as they came in, keeping tabs on him as best she could through various forms of what essentially boiled down to gossip and hearsay. That gave her very little reassurance.

She blinked her eyes tightly and took a deep breath before opening them again, surveying the scene in front of her. From the safety of inside her car, she sat back and watched. Police officers were still everywhere, buzzing back and forth like bees to a hive. The hive being Warden Pope and the officers in charge who stood in the yard, barking orders, facilitating the passage of information, and trying to keep everything running smoothly. It wasn't working.

Bellick was storming off with Warden Pope on his heels. She could see even from a distance that Bellick's face was beet red, steaming mad, his jaw set tightly. It made her smile despite herself. He'd been an ass to her ever since she'd turned down his offer of a dinner date at Red Lobster…and an ass to everyone else. He'd probably always been like that to everyone else and was only nice to her when he wanted to take her out for a night on the town. She shuddered at the thought.

With her mind elsewhere, she almost missed the subtle vibrating of her phone in her bag on the passenger seat. She brushed Michael's letter aside, being careful to not damage it, and grabbed her phone.

She looked at the caller I.D. and saw that it was Veronica.

"Hello?" she answered.

"Sara, what the hell is going on?"

"Well," she paused, "I'm sure you've gathered by now that there was an escape," she recounted sarcastically.

"Yea I've got the news on. But seriously?! Michael and Lincoln are both gone, they're sure?"

"Yup, it seems so."

She sighed loudly, "Oh my God."

"I know," was all Sara could offer.

Veronica rushed on, "Do you know where they are? Have they found out anything?

"No, I'm just as in the dark as you are right now. It's chaos here," she explained, still seeing the sea of blue uniforms and flashing lights in front of her, "all we know is they're gone and it looks like every cop in the state is looking for them."

"God, I hope they're ok," Veronica said quietly, almost under her breath.

"Me too," Sara agreed, relieved to have someone in the same boat as her. Was it foolish to be worried about two convicted felons who were on the run? Perhaps. But convicted didn't mean guilty, and certainly didn't mean they were bad people. In fact, she was certain they weren't, they were good people who were backed into a corner, forcing them to take drastic measures. She had a right to be concerned for their safety and wellbeing.

When Veronica spoke again she was exasperated, "How could they be so stupid!?"

Sara smiled, amused by her friend's quick turn from concern to frustration, "I've uh, I've wondered that too," she agreed again with a small laugh.

"I feel useless."

"I know…so do I."

The line went quiet for a moment. Sara watched lazily as a few police officers in her line of sight got into their car and drove off.

"I still love him I think," Veronica confessed, her voice distant.

Sara was confused momentarily; her mind had been on Michael and she felt a pang of worry and jealousy at Veronica's confession. It quickly faded when she realized that she was talking about Lincoln, and she smiled sadly, "I kind of figured that. I'm sorry."

She understood the feeling. The simple misunderstood notion that Veronica was interested in Michael had her heart racing and a weight in the pit of her stomach. But now, rather than jealousy, there was a sense of comradery. They both had feelings for a man who was in serious danger, and there was nothing they could do to help.

Veronica sighed, "I don't know what to do. I can't do nothing I'll drive myself crazy."

"I know, but unless we hear from them…" she shrugged.

"I know. DAMMIT why didn't they tell me?"

"Again, I've wondered that too…but I get why. You and I are both honor-bound to tell the powers that be stuff like that," she paused, "I'd lose my job and probably my medical license if I knew about the escape and didn't report it."

"True," Veronica paused to consider, "can I ask you something? And you're under no obligation to tell me."

"Uh, sure?" she agreed, despite feeling an internal wall going up at the thought of a probing question.

"What's up with you and Michael? I mean, before this obviously."

"Uh," she laughed nervously, pausing to choose her words, "I care about him. A lot." she felt her heart rate quicken again, "Beyond that I don't really know, I never let myself think that far ahead."

"Understandable," she replied, and Sara could hear that she was smiling.

"What?" she asked with a small laugh.

"Nothing, I'm just," she said with a smile still in her voice, "I'm happy for you. And Michael. I really am."

"Well, thanks, I guess," Sara could feel a blush rising in her cheeks, "I don't know if it matters anymore though."

"Hey, don't give up so quickly. You never know…especially with those two."

She smiled, "True," she was starting to realize that when those brothers had their mind set on something, there was no stopping them, "will you let me know if you hear from either of them?"

"Of course! No way am I NOT telling you, I don't wanna go through this alone."

"Good," she sighed in relief, "I'll do the same."

"Alright well I guess I should let you get back to all the chaos. Take care, Sara."

"Thanks, you too."

She put her phone down and looked around, becoming aware of her surroundings again. She felt strangely better than she did moments before. It's not like they'd solved anything, but she had a friend to talk to, someone who understood.

Without that, she would have driven home in a daze and spent the rest of the day eating unhealthy food, watching movies, and trying to ignore her worries. It wasn't the best coping method, but it certainly wasn't the worst. She knew that better than anyone.

She just had so many questions, and all of them were going to stay unanswered for the foreseeable future. It's the "not knowing" that's always the worst. The truth can hurt, but the pain of uncertainty is relentless; it wears on a person, allowing their mind to spin out in circles, never able to find solid ground. She'd rather face the facts and move on, whatever they might be, but that wasn't an option.

It took her a moment to realize that one of the many blue uniforms was headed in her direction. She rolled down her window.

"Hey, Bob."

"Doctor," he greeted with a nod, "Warden saw you sitting over here and was hoping you could work today after all. He said you were going home, which is fine if you need to, but he's worried some of the inmates will riot…and when riots happen-"

"-injuries usually happen too," she finished with a knowing nod, "of course I'd be happy to," she was secretly relieved that she'd have something to keep her occupied the rest of the day, "just let him know I need space to work. When I went up there a little bit ago the infirmary was full of officers."

"Yes ma'am, I'll get right on that.

She smiled, she didn't know Bob well, but he certainly had good manners, "Thank you, sir."

XXXXX

Lincoln and Michael had split off from the group. It was amicable enough, better than they'd hoped. The others were grateful for Michael's help, had thanked him, and they all wished each other luck.

With nothing but a backpack each, they made it to the car Michael had waiting for them and had started driving; they had a long road ahead of them.

Chicago to the border was a long way, and they took turns driving throughout the evening and night, although Lincoln did the bulk of the driving. Michael's headaches worried him, and he didn't think it was the best idea to have him driving, especially for hours at a time. At first, Michael had protested, but Lincoln finally convinced him to just let him take the wheel this one time, the literal wheel, and assured him that all of the scheming and planning was still safely in his hands.

They stopped as few times as possible. The first stop for gas and gas station snacks had been just as stressful as expected; when Lincoln had gone in to pay, his own face was starting back at him from behind the cash register. He was on the F.B.I's most wanted list along with the other seven men, not that he was surprised, but still. It was strange. He'd been thankful beyond words for the baseball hat he'd borrowed from Michael and pulled the brim lower, keeping his head down. The cashier was a teenager who was far more interested in whatever was on his phone anyways, allowing Lincoln to make his way back to the car and onto the road without incident.

He was driving now as the sun was coming up, Michael asleep in the passenger seat next to him, breathing quietly. It was oddly peaceful; the sound of the car on the road, the cool blue of the sky with a hint of orange on the horizon. He was tired from a night of driving, but the coffee they bought on their last stop helped a lot. He'd been forced to quit caffeine cold-turkey when he was incarcerated, so his tolerance for the stuff was laughably low, a few sips and he could feel his attention instantly heighten.

The unintended side effect was that it made him a little agitated, he looked in the rearview mirror too often, he knew that, but he couldn't help it. It felt like at any moment those blue and red lights would flash behind him. He watched the speedometer obsessively, not wanting something as stupid as a speeding ticket to blow the whole operation. It was borderline paranoia and he knew it, but he couldn't seem to stop. Any time he did, he convinced himself that he was paranoid for a reason, he had to stay alert.

Michael started to stir next to him.

"Morning," Lincoln greeted.

Michael groaned.

With a hint of a smile, "I said, good morning," Lincoln emphasized, hoping to get an actual response.

He glanced over to find that Michael's eyes were closed again, but only halfway, his head lolled to the side, facing Lincoln.

"Michael?" he asked, worried now, and still not getting a response from him.

"MICHAEL!" he shook him with his right hand, keeping his left on the wheel.

No response.

He looked behind him and saw no other cars on the road, so he pulled the car over to the shoulder and parked it, getting out and walking through the cloud of dust around the car to get to the passenger side.

He opened the door, "Michael, Michael wake up," he shook his shoulders.

"Ugh," Michael groaned slowly, his head still laying slack to the side.

"Hey, talk to me, come on Michael," he begged.

Michael's hands shot up to press against his forehead. He mumbled again, but this time it was out of pain.

Lincoln felt helpless. He crouched by the passenger side and waited, watching as the pain came and went. They waited for at least twenty minutes on the side of the road. Michael was in and out of consciousness, battling a terrible headache whenever he was lucid, offering only unintelligible slurs and groans of pain when Lincoln asked if he was ok.

This was his fault. If Michael hadn't ever gone to Fox River to save him, he'd be recovering from surgery right now. Lincoln watched Michael as he slumped into the seat again, exhausted from pain and slipping into unconsciousness. He kept an eye on the even rise and fall of his chest; if his breathing stopped, he was calling 911, no questions asked.

Lincoln glanced towards the backseat, which held a bag of supplies from the gas station. It had a cheap cell phone in it, something he hadn't mentioned to Michael. It was a safety net, just in case they needed to call someone. He considered his options.

Since Michael's condition was still relatively stable, he wouldn't call an ambulance. They'd be busted the second paramedics arrived, assuming the paramedics didn't live under a rock, and even if they did, the minute they set foot in a hospital it would all be over. Someone would recognize them.

But 911 wasn't the only option. He stood up and opened the door to the back seat, glancing at Michael one last time before grabbing the bag and finding the cell phone, still in its package. He started battling with the thick plastic around it, pulling out the staples that held the two sides together and finally just ripping it all open with an angry outburst, growing agitated. He exhaled a big breath, realizing that he was on dangerously close to becoming unhinged...over packaging. He closed his eyes and leaned on the car, maybe he really did need some sleep.

After a few moments and a chance to calm down, he put the battery in and turned it on. He stood by the passenger side now, his left hand on the roof of the car, and the cell phone in his right. He kept his eyes glued on Michael as he waited for the screen to light up and be ready to dial. He had to call someone and right now, there was only one number he still knew by heart: Veronica.

XXXXX

Veronica hadn't slept a wink. Ok, she maybe got a couple of hours but that certainly wasn't enough. There was far too much on her mind. She knew that worrying about Lincoln and Michael didn't help anything, but she couldn't seem to stop the endless spiral of thoughts swirling around in her mind.

It also didn't help that it was too hot in her bedroom. She tossed and turned, flinging off blankets, sticking a leg out the side. Nothing helped. The ceiling fan above her went around and around, providing little relief. She felt small beads of sweat forming on her chest and forehead, the waves of heat rising through her body, making it impossible to get comfortable.

Around 3am she finally gave up and made her way out to the couch and opted for a movie instead. She'd popped in one of her favorite DVDs, hoping it would provide comfort while allowing her mind to wander more softly, lulled by the cadences of the familiar voices and plot lines.

It helped a little, she was more comfortable than she'd been in her bed, and the distraction of the movie saved her from the constant assault of her mind on itself. The movie ended, and she put in another, realizing that it was almost six o'clock now, a completely acceptable time for coffee. So, she wandered into the kitchen to start making some, yawning as she made her way over. Was it a good idea to caffeinate her anxiety? Probably not, but if she didn't, she'd only be setting herself up for a killer headache later. Drinking a cup or several was the lesser of two evils.

She grabbed her favorite mug and the cream from the refrigerator, setting them on the counter next to the coffee maker and waited for it to brew, daydreaming about Lincoln…and Michael, but mostly Lincoln. She felt like she'd failed him. Despite the long nights, the research, the phone calls, she hadn't been able to prove him innocent, and now it was too late. He was a fugitive; a fugitive who was still breathing which she considered a blessing, but there had to be a way to make this right and prove him innocent, so he could stop running and live a normal life. After all he'd been through, he deserved it more than anyone.

Her phone started going off in the living room. It was on the coffee table, chiming away. She almost brushed it off, figuring she'd probably set an alarm for six and forgot to turn it off, but the sound was annoying her, so she went over to check.

It wasn't her alarm, someone was calling. It showed as "Unknown number," which she usually would have let ring, figuring they'd leave a message if it was important, but not today.

"Hello?" she answered.

A deep, familiar voice replied, "Do you know who this is?"

She froze, her hopes and fears of who the caller might be confirmed, "Yes."

"Listen I don't have much time, gotta be careful you know."

"Right," she squeaked out, her heart beating wildly in her chest.

"He, uh, the guy with me, you know," he hinted, not wanting to say Michael's name in case somehow, someone was listening.

"Yea, what about him?"

"He's not doing well. It's getting really bad. That doctor he was seeing you know her, right?"

Her mind flashed to Sara, "Yes of course."

"We need to talk to her. Can you give me her number?"

"Yea, hold on," she took the phone away from her ear, hands shaking slightly, and scrolled through her contacts, putting him on speaker before reading the number aloud.

"Got it, thanks," he replied.

"Of course," she had so many questions. Hundreds of them at least, but could only manage one, "are you guys ok?"

"We're hanging in there. I'm just worried about him right now," he paused, "I'm sorry about all this."

"I want to help," she insisted.

"You just did."

"I want to help more."

"Not now, it's too dangerous. Thanks again…for everything."

The line went dead.

She put the phone down in disbelief and wandered back to the kitchen, pouring her coffee in a daze. They were alive. They were ok, except for Michael's condition.

She went back to the couch and plopped down, grabbing her phone and texting Sara, "Hey, you might get a call from one of our friends. It'll be from an unknown number. Answer it, and don't mention names."

A moment later she got a reply, "Will do, thanks."

She sighed in temporary relief, thankful to have a friend and a competent ally, all rolled into one. Seconds later, her knee was bouncing up and down, a desperate yet failed attempt to release her nervous energy. She stood back up and walked over to the window, coffee mug in hand. Her mind was all over the place, a hurried scramble that was so overwhelming, it almost felt blank. She should have asked him more questions, she was kicking herself for that, but knew he didn't have time to answer them anyways. If Michael really wasn't doing well, they needed to talk to Sara as soon as possible, not waste time answering her endless questions and listening to her inevitable lectures about how irresponsible they were being.

She sighed, recognizing that she did often subject them both to lectures, but she lectured because she cared. She'd felt responsible for them both for as long as she could remember, looking out for them, trying to reign in Lincoln's wild side to keep him on the right track. And there it was again, the feeling of failure, of letting him down, rearing its ugly head. Her efforts weren't enough. She stared into the dark liquid in her mug, knowing she shouldn't make her jitters worse, and took a sip anyways.


	13. Chapter 13

Sara was hard at work bandaging up an inmate. Apparently, a fight had broken out and her current patient ended up with a black eye and a nasty gash above his eyebrow. She pulled her hair back into a low pony tail, keeping it out of her face so she could get a better look, and cleaned the wound. Now that it was clean, she started applying a butterfly bandage, grateful that it wouldn't require stitches, when her cell phone started ringing in her white coat pocket.

She jumped when it started ringing and then scoffed at her own jumpiness. It's not like she wasn't expecting a call; but her brain knowing that didn't seem to have any effect on her frayed nerves. She hurriedly took off her soiled gloves and reached into her pocket; as promised, "Unknown Number," was flashing across the screen.

"Sorry, I have to take this, sit tight," she instructed the inmate as she exited the infirmary and headed for her office.

"Can you keep an eye on him for a second?" she asked the guard stationed outside, who nodded in response.

She cleared her throat and tried to slow her racing heart, jumpstarted by the startle of her ringing phone, and stepped into the infirmary office, clicking the door shut behind her, "Hello?"

"You know who this is?" Lincoln asked.

She nodded, "Yea, our friend told me you'd be calling."

"Good, that's good," he seemed relieved to not have to explain anything, "listen, the guy I'm with isn't doing well."

"What's wrong?" she demanded.

"He blacked out again, took a long time for him to wake up. And the pain is really bad…getting worse."

She'd been worried about this all along; she clutched the back of her desk chair, needing an anchor of support, "You need to get him to the hospital."

"That ain't an option, not until we get to where we're going."

"Where are you going?" she knew he couldn't say it outright in case the phone was tapped, but a general direction would be helpful.

"South. Far south."

Ah. So, they were intending to cross the border. That was helpful to know at least, but didn't provide any sort of comfort regarding Michael's ability to get the medical care he needed. Brain surgery from some black-market charlatan wasn't going to end well.

"What he needs isn't the kind of thing you should get done off the books. He needs a specialist."

Lincoln sighed in frustration, "We can't do that."

"What about the offer?" she hated to even suggest it, but there didn't seem to be a better option, "Maybe you need to reconsider."

"What offer?"

She rolled her eyes and bowed her head, "He didn't tell you." It wasn't even a question; she should have known Michael would have conveniently forgotten to mention that.

"No, he just said he didn't want it done until, you know, that one day."

Right, his execution day. That made sense, she supposed. Keep Lincoln in the dark about Christina's offer so that Lincoln wouldn't self-sacrifice, going through with the execution so that Michael could have the surgery. There goes Michael trying to save everyone but himself again, but she was glad Lincoln appeared to have the same gene, willing to do whatever it takes to save his brother's life.

If Michael hadn't told him about the offer…it suddenly hit her, the ramifications of what she almost let slip. Lincoln didn't know that his mother was alive.

"Uh, do you think I could talk to your friend?"

"He's still in and out, why?"

"It's kind of a," she swallowed, "a sensitive issue…"

"We don't have a lot of time, just tell me."

What were the rules in a situation like this? She didn't feel like she had any right telling Lincoln a family secret. Michael should tell him; Michael should have already told him, but that was water under the bridge by now.

She shook her head, "I can't," she decided, not wanting to cross that line, "but he was given an offer that could save his life by someone you both know. Ask him about it. Let him know that I really think he should consider it at this point, ok?"

"Ok, thanks. Really…thank you."

"Of course. Call again if you need anything, ok?" She replied, realizing that she sounded like a doting mother, already far more worried about their wellbeing than she wanted to be.

"Ok, uh..." there was a long pause, "nevermind."

"Hey, come on," she hated being led on, teased with the possibility of a question or revelation and being denied. He should know by now that he could trust her, "whatever it is, just tell me."

"Our friend, the one who contacted you…is she doing ok?" he sounded genuinely concerned, and far more vulnerable than she'd ever heard him, "I mean, I talked to her for a minute, but she's been wearing a brave face around me since this thing started."

Ah, Sara smiled, feeling like a wallflower watching a young romance blossom, even though they were both adults and dated years ago, "Yea, yea, I think she's doing ok. Uh...she's worried about you and...she still cares about you a lot."

She didn't want to share what Veronica had told her in confidence, that she, "still loves him she thinks," but she had to give the poor guy some kind of hope. And it's not like it was some big secret that they cared about each other, she was just confirming that the feelings are still there, that's all.

He didn't say anything, so she decided to wrap it up, "Stay safe, ok?"

"We'll try."

XXXXX

"Michael? Hey, Michael, wake up man."

Michael's eyes began to open again, fearing that the pain would soon take the place of his unconsciousness. He blinked again, letting the morning light filter through his eyes. He was in the passenger seat, the door was open, and Lincoln was crouched next to him.

Michael felt like he'd been hit by a bus; so worn out, tired, and exhausted from being in pain. But the pain wasn't there anymore, he realized- it had mercifully receded, allowing him to open his eyes fully.

"Linc?" he asked, confused.

"Yea man, it's me. You've been in and out for a while."

"How long?"

"About an hour or so, listen," he continued, getting right to the point, "I called Sara."

"What?" he was suddenly more alert, "you called the infirmary?"

"No, her cell phone."

He narrowed his eyes, "How did you even get her number?"

"Called Veronica first, she gave it to me."

Michael looked even more confused, "Wait, how does Veronica have Sara's cell phone number?"

Lincoln paused, "Good question," he pondered that for a minute and then shook it off and continued, "anyways, Sara mentioned an offer you'd been given, one that could save your life. What is it?"

Michael met his gaze. He'd been hoping to avoid this moment of truth, but that didn't seem likely anymore. He wasn't sure how Lincoln would react to the fact that the mother he watched die was in fact alive and well, conspiring against him and allowing him to be executed. But he knew Lincoln didn't mince his words, and Michael intended to give him the same courtesy.

"This is going to be a lot to take," he started, already dreading the pain he was about to inflict on his brother.

He rolled his eyes, "Just say it, Michael, whatever it is-just say it."

"Mom is alive."

Lincoln's expression didn't change for the several beats it took him to reply, "No she's not."

He sighed, "Yea, she is. She came to visit me at Fox River…told me that The Company will give me a lifesaving, state-of-the-art operation if I agree to work for them."

Lincoln remained motionless for a long moment, then picked up a piece of loose gravel and stood up, throwing it at a nearby tree, hitting it with an impressive whack. He said nothing. He picked up another piece and threw it again.

His lack of response worried Michael, his brother wasn't one to back away from a problem. He didn't shut down or fold in on himself, he faced whatever it was head-on. When he finally turned back to Michael, the vein in his forehead starting to pop, "How? Why? What the-" he crouched again, trying to control his anger, looking at Michael with a pained expression, needing an explanation.

Michael had many of those same questions himself. Questions that had remained unanswered since the day she'd come to visit. What was he supposed to do, call her back and ask? He couldn't exactly expect her to be honest with him at this point.

He turned in the passenger seat so that his legs hung out the side of the car and rested on the gravel, facing Lincoln, "As far as how she faked her death, I don't know…and I guess don't know why either."

He shook his head dismissively, "No, why does she want you to work for," he snarled, "for them."

"Oh. That," he clasped his hands and rested his forearms on his knees, "I don't know that either. Something about me having a great mind I guess," he replied sadly.

"No, man this can't happen," he shook his head, "The Company took away dad, mom and now they want to take you. It ain't gonna happen."

"What if it's the only choice?" Michael asked quietly.

"You'd really consider working for them!?"

He lowered his head. He was considering it. How could he not? He didn't want to die, and having the surgery was apparently the only means to that end. It would involve a few unpleasant deals, but there was always a way to fix things, right? Staying alive was the first step and that might involve agreeing to work for The Company for a while, before he could weasel his way out. He looked at Lincoln, his eyes angry and dark looking back at him, and hoped he could make him understand, or at the very least, not despise him if he chose to go through with it.

Michael sighed, "What if I could somehow use my position within the Company to get back at them? To exonerate you. You'd be free, legally free, to live in the U.S."

Lincoln turned to stare off into the distance, "I don't know, I mean, how can you trust them at all? Could they even do that?"

"She said they could've gotten me out of Fox River with the wave of a hand. "Child's play" were her exact words."

"Wait," Lincoln started, putting the timeline together, "you could've gotten out of Fox River and had the surgery already?"

Whoops. Michael hadn't meant to let that slip, but it was too late, "uh...yea."

Lincoln's response was far too calm, "and you didn't."

"I couldn't just leave you there."

"That's exactly what you should've done!" he yelled.

"I couldn't."

"Yes you could! Michael why the hell would you-"

"No!" Michael cut him off, raising his voice, "I couldn't do that. Not after everything Lincoln, not after…" he paused to gather his thoughts, "you were there for me. You raised me, fed me...kept me off the streets. If you think for one second that I was about to just leave you to die, save myself and go work for the people who were killing you, I-" he was at a loss for words.

Lincoln was silent.

"Look," Michael started again and pinched the bridge of his nose, a stress induced habit he'd had even before the tumor, "what's done is done, and we have to deal with this problem now. I'm at the end of my rope here Linc, and I'm not getting any better," he paused for a moment before asking, "what did Sara say?"

Lincoln met his gaze, his eyes clearer now, "She thinks you should do it."

Michael nodded and asked genuinely for his opinion, "Do you see another way out of this?"

He thought for a moment and shook his head solemnly, his anger subsiding, "No."

He sighed, "Then I guess it's settled. We need to call Sara back so she can get Christina's number. She left it with the front desk at Fox River."

Lincoln nodded reluctantly.

Michael hadn't really considered the logistics of getting the surgery scheduled and performed, he didn't even know what the procedure was, the recovery time...but a general plan started forming in his mind.

"I'm not sure where the surgery will happen, but I guess wherever that is, you'll drop me off there and keep going and cross the border alone. Once you're safe you can find a way to contact me."

Lincoln was looking down at the ground. Michael put a hand on his shoulder, "We'll figure this all out, I just need time, and it looks like having the surgery is the only way I'll get it."

"I'm not letting them take any more of my family," he said with quiet certainty. It wasn't a beg or a plea, it was a fact. He wouldn't allow it to happen, not again.

"They won't, they're a means to an end. That's it. As soon as I'm better I'll start working on a plan to get out of my obligation to work for them."

He needed to make that clear to Lincoln; he had no intention of working for The Company for the rest of his life. There had to be a way out. But for now, he couldn't deny that the surgery was his best shot. He had to try.

Still sitting in the passenger seat with the door open, he asked, "Can I see the cell phone?"

Lincoln handed it to him, "The last number dialed is Sara."

He took a deep breath and realized his hands weren't steady. He was nervous about calling her- was she upset? Angry? Did she even want to talk to him? He swallowed nervously.

Lincoln raised an eyebrow, "You good?"

"Yea," he lied.

"She's not mad, Michael, at least she didn't seem that way when I talked to her."

He felt a bit of relief at hearing this, but Sara had no real reason to be mad at Lincoln, "Do you mind if I talk to her alone?"

"Sure," Lincoln agreed and started walking away from the car, out of earshot.

He stared at the phone for another minute, hoping to calm down but realizing that the stalling was only adding to his nerves. What was he supposed to say? How do you even start a conversation like that? He hit redial.

It only rang twice before she answered, "Hello?"

"Uh, hi," he stammered out, not expecting her to pick up so quickly, "how are you?"

"I'm…I'm fine, I guess," she sounded confused by his question, "how are you?"

Hearing her voice made everything seem more real. The distance between them felt infinitely larger, knowing that he couldn't see her right there with him, tending to a wound or administering a shot. The lack of proximity was disheartening; hearing her voice without being able to see her in front of him was even harder than he'd expected.

"I've been better," he downplayed, the pain had been almost unbearable.

"Did you reconsider the offer?" she asked without preamble.

"I did…and I'm going to do it." He hesitated, needing to ask a favor but knowing he wasn't deserving of one, "But I uh, I need something from you," he winced as the words left his mouth.

"Anything," she replied without hesitation.

He closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. If she was mad she did a great job of hiding it and was still eager to help. It was a relief, but also added to his guilt. She was too good to him.

"The phone number for uh, the woman who made the offer, she left it with the front desk where you work. I need it."

"I'll go down there now," she agreed, "do you…do you want to stay on the line while I go? Won't take more than a few minutes."

"Ok," his heart was thudding in his chest, hopeful now that he'd have time for a more in-depth conversation with her. He couldn't help himself and blurted out an apology, "and look, I really am sorry about all this."

She hesitated, "me too," she said flatly.

"Please tell me what you're thinking," he begged, not knowing if he could keep up the cordial charade any longer, he needed to know what was really on her mind.

She paused, but he could hear that she was walking now, the sound of a door opening and shutting as she made her way to the front desk.

"I uh," she paused again, "I'm…worried. About you. And, yea I'm upset. I don't like where we left things," he felt a stab of guilt, "and I hate that you're putting yourself in danger. I mean seriously," she huffed, "what were you thinking?"

"I know," he managed to squeak out, feeling a sense of urgency to right his wrongs, to make everything as clear as he could, "but I didn't know I would get sick, that wasn't part of the plan."

"I was talking about the other thing."

"Oh," so she was upset about the escape in general, "I didn't feel like I had another choice."

She was silent for a moment before sighing, "I guess I can understand that, but I mean, what're you going to do now? There are so many people looking for you."

"Don't worry about that, I planned ahead," he said dismissively, knowing there was something far more important to tell her, "but listen. There's something I need to tell you, something important."

"Ok, what?"

He gathered his courage and continued with certainty, "What went on with you and me...it was real. I understand if you're upset with me, I do. But please, please don't ever doubt that."

He felt like a school boy asking a girl to dance. The nerves were ridiculous, his palms sweaty, the stakes were so high. He didn't want her to doubt for a second that his feelings for her were genuine; he hated the circumstances they'd been thrown into and would give anything for it to be different, but right now, a declaration of his feelings was all he could offer. He waited for her response for what seemed like years.

"Was it?" she whispered, the uncertainty in her voice causing his heart to constrict.

"Yes," he said firmly, squeezing his free hand into a fist and pounding it softly against the dashboard, "I mean it. When this is all figured out…if you'll still have me, I owe you dinner. We need to do this right."

He could hear her smile as she replied slowly, "That's right, you do. I'm holding you to that," she paused, "hold on one second," and he heard her talking to someone else, their conversation muffled.

The brief interlude gave him a moment to think, to feel his relief at her apparent lack of disdain for him. He let out a slow breath, relaxing his hand and spreading his fingers out on his knee, feeling the tension dissipate from his shoulders. She'd answered the phone, she was helping, and she'd even agreed to a long overdue dinner date.

"Here I got the number," her voice brought him back to reality.

He switched the phone to his left hand and grabbed a gas station receipt and pen, listening and writing it down as she read it off, "Thank you."

"Of course," she replied, sounding a bit worried again. He could practically see the small furrow between her brows, her softly parted lips.

"What?"

She hesitated, "Please let me know how everything goes. Please. I can't be kept in the dark about this." He could hear the weight of desperation in her words, showing just how much she'd been worried and…well, kept in the dark. He didn't want her bearing the burden of uncertainty anymore, and made a silent vow to keep in touch as much as he could.

"I will. I promise."

"Ok," she sighed.

He knew the conversation was nearing the end. He didn't want it to be. Without thinking he said the only thing that felt right, not letting his logical mind stop him, "Look, I don't want to cross a line, and I know there's a lot going on right now and I don't expect you to feel the same way, but I just need you to know that," he took a deep breath, "I love you, Sara."

The second the words left his lips he winced and shut his eyes, his heart racing. Did he just make a horrible mistake? Scaring her away was the last thing he wanted to do.

He heard her smile again, "I love you too."

XXXXX

"Love, huh?" Lincoln raised an eyebrow and gave a suggestive smile, teasing in the way only brothers could. He must've been within earshot after all. He got into the driver's seat and shut the door.

Michael scowled, "I had to let her know that I actually care about her, that I'm not just using her."

"Did she say it back?"

"Yup."

"Told ya."

"You told me she wouldn't have even given me her real phone number!" Michael exclaimed with an eye roll.

They both laughed.

"Whatever man, I'm happy for ya...I'm just a little surprised."

Michael tilted his head, "Why?"

He shrugged, "Just kinda fast that's all, you don't usually jump into stuff like that."

"Stuff like what?"

"Ya know, letting people in...trusting people, letting your guard down."

"Yea well, I have a few good reasons to be like that," he said a bit more defensively than he would've liked. His upbringing made him have a hard time with trust. He didn't like using that as an excuse or a crutch, but it was the truth, and it was a part of him. So many people had let him down, one after another, and any time he had slowly let his walls crumble, it had backfired, leaving him hurt again. He knew Lincoln grew up in the same situation, so he felt like a bit of a hypocrite. But again, it was a part of him, it wasn't something he could just turn off.

"I know," Lincoln replied more softly, "sorry man, forget I said anything. I'm just glad you have somebody now."

"Thanks," he replied, growing quiet and looking out the window. The sun was warmer now, the sky a clear blue. He stared out at the road in front of them, realizing that they should probably start driving again. He could always call Christina while Lincoln was driving.

"What're you thinking?" Lincoln asked.

Michael looked down at the phone and the number he'd scrawled on the back of the receipt. He didn't want to talk to Christina again.

"I was thinking that I'm not looking forward to the next call nearly as much as the last one."

Lincoln gave a small smile, "Want me to do it?"

There was that protective older brother he knew growing up, always shielding him from the ugliness of family problems.

Michael shook his head, "No, I have to do it."

Lincoln nodded and turned the key, the car engine revving to life. He merged back onto the road as Michael leaned his head back, not knowing what to even say once he dialed the phone. He obviously needed her to answer, but secretly hoped she wouldn't, giving him more time to wrap his head around the fact that he had to face her again.

He took a deep breath and dialed.

It rang four times, and his hopes that she might not answer kept growing, but then he heard her voice, "Michael, I've been expecting your call," Christina sing-songed, obviously smug that he was backed into a corner far enough to need her help.

"Hello," he replied flatly.

"I expect you've reconsidered?"

He sighed, "Yes. You don't need to know the details, but if the offer still stands...I need the surgery."

"Well I must say, you've gotten yourself into quite the predicament by breaking out," she paused, knowing he was waiting with baited breath, "but I think that could still be arranged."

"I'm guessing that granting Lincoln his freedom is still off the table?" he asked half-heartedly.

"That's correct," she replied happily.

He still didn't get it, her coldness towards Lincoln, and sighed, "When can I have the surgery?"

"Well, how fast can you get to Miami?''

They were currently close to Memphis, so Miami was a solid fifteen hours or so. It was still morning, so if they hit the road now…

"Around tomorrow afternoon."

"Great, I'll let the doctors know and we'll have you all scheduled for the morning after you get here."

"Great," he replied curtly. He was scared; having surgery performed by doctors that work for The Company was scary enough. Didn't they need a consultation? They've never even met him and they were going to cut into his brain in two days. He tried to push those worries from his mind.

"It'll be fine," she said dismissively, reading his thoughts, "you'll be better in no time. We look forward to working with you."

It sounded more like a threat than a pleasant ending to their conversation.

"Sure," he managed.

"Goodbye Michael," he heard a click and the call ended.

Lincoln was in the driver's seat now and looked over at him, "So?"

"We have today and tomorrow to get to Miami. The day after that I'll have the surgery."

Lincoln nodded, "Alright."

"Yea," he said distantly, looking out the window, his elbow propped against it and his chin on his fist.

"It'll all work out," Lincoln reassured, and Michael desperately hoped he was right.


	14. Chapter 14

"It's sixty for the night," the hotel clerk told Lincoln in the most unamused tone.

"Fine," he replied and tossed three twenties on the counter, keeping his hat brim low.

"Here's your key," the man replied, handing it to him.

"Thanks," he turned quickly and went back to the car where Michael was waiting. Interacting with anyone besides Michael still made him anxious. He tried to keep his cool and act like a normal civilian, but he could always feel his pulse thumping like a jackhammer. Thankfully, the clerk didn't have that look in his eyes, that flash of recognition that would've sent Lincoln speeding away in search of another hotel, and he was glad. It had been a long day on the road and he was ready for a break.

"All set?" Michael asked from inside the car, the window rolled down slightly.

"Yup, room 208."

"Ok," Michael replied, getting out and grabbing the backpack from the back seat.

It wasn't the nicest looking hotel, but it would do. They took cash and didn't ask for I.D., and those were really the only factors they considered these days. There was also a small store a few blocks down where they could go for some food and any other supplies they might need, so that was a plus.

The sun was setting, and Lincoln's stomach was growling, they'd been on the road all day since Michael had scheduled his surgery, and Lincoln had been behind the wheel the whole time.

They were in Georgia now, close to the Florida border, and he enjoyed the warm evening air as he grabbed the other backpack and they headed towards the stairwell, walking up to the second floor. He put the key in the door and turned the handle, walking into the small, dark room.

It smelled stale, yet somehow with the lemony remnants of cleaning products. He flipped on the light switch and tossed the backpack on the bed closest to the door. The carpet was a dark blue, the bedspreads a tan and blue pattern that matched. Michael came in behind him and locked the door, tossed his backpack on the chair in the corner and sat down on the bed nearest the window, flopping backwards and staring up at the ceiling.

Lincoln leaned against the wall and rested his head back against it, closing his eyes. Even with his eyes closed, a road appeared in his mind's eye, left over images from a day full of driving. But aside from those images, his mind was blissfully empty and tired. He let it space out and wander for a bit, until he heard Michael let out a big exhale.

"You ok?" Lincoln asked, opening his eyes just enough to see him.

"What?" he looked over at Lincoln sleepily, "oh, yea…just thinking."

Lincoln nodded, "You hungry? I was gonna go get something at the store a few blocks down."

"Sure," he replied, starting to get up, "I'll come with you."

"Nah man, stay here," he put a hand up, signaling him to stop, "less chance of us being recognized if we're not together."

Michael looked like he was about to protest, but then sighed and agreed, sitting back down, "Ok, but just…be careful."

"Duh," he replied with a smirk, "anything you hungry for?"

"Uh," he paused to think, "tacos," he replied with a smile.

Lincoln laughed, "Don't think they'll have those at the mini mart down the street…not any you'd want to eat anyways."

"I know," he sighed, "whatever you get is fine, I'm not picky."

"Ok," he nodded and grabbed some money, "I'll leave the room key here in case you need it and I'll just knock when I get back."

"Ok, I'll be here," he replied, laying back down onto the bed, "and I'll probably let you back in," he smirked.

"You better," he retorted, opening the door and stepping out of the air conditioning and into the pleasantly warm night-time air.

He made his way down the stairs and into the parking lot, taking a deep breath, enjoying the feeling of walking after being cooped up in a car all day. It was dark now, but street lights lit his way along the sidewalk on the few blocks it took to get to the store. The steady rhythm of his feet against the pavement, along with the fresh air, allowed his mind to wander.

He hated that Michael was doing this, but he understood why. It would be stupid to pass up a free, life-saving operation and have his criminal record wiped clean, but everything about it still irked him. For one, The Company seemed far too confident that they could get all of the tumor and have Michael completely in remission. From what Michael had told him, the doctors in Chicago weren't giving him any kind of guarantees that the surgery would be entirely successful, or that he wouldn't be left with brain damage. Yet here The Company was, telling him with certainty that in a week or two he'd be healed and employed. It didn't sit right, but it didn't matter; the surgery was happening, and he and Michael were separating tomorrow.

He hadn't even considered what he'd do after dropping Michael off, aside from the obvious task of making his way to the border. But once he got to Panama, he didn't have a clue. He'd have to start by finding a place to stay but eventually he'd run out of money, right? Couldn't live in a hotel forever.

He didn't know much about getting a job in Panama, but he could only assume that wherever he applied would want some kind of an I.D.; it made him wonder just how good the fake ones were that Michael made them.

They had to be good, he reasoned with himself, if Michael expected the I.D.s to get them both across international borders…surely, they'd be good enough to get a job in Panama. He sighed, growing frustrated by his own thoughts. He'd take a job anywhere without complaint, but the process of getting hired might have a few obstacles. Maybe Michael knew about it…he probably did, given all the research he'd done. Once he got back to the hotel with dinner he'd have to ask him about it.

He was in the parking lot of the store now, which was even more brightly lit, the fluorescent lights all around him causing him to squint as he walked up to the door, opened it, and heard the bell chime, signaling his presence. He kept his head down and went to the right, glancing around to find where the food was. No one greeted him, and he was grateful.

He found the aisle he needed and started grabbing things; bread, peanut butter, chips…they didn't have a microwave in the hotel so anything that required heating was out of the question. He was a few aisles away from the checkout and decided to use his relatively hidden position to glance up discretely and look behind the counter. When he did, he saw himself. A massive, "Wanted" poster behind the counter, along with the seven other men who'd escaped.

"Dammit," he cursed under his breath. Did he risk it? He still had sunglasses tucked into the collar of his shirt, but it was dark outside- wearing them to cover more of his face would only be suspicious. He looked again and saw that the person behind the counter was an older woman, looking bored out of her mind. He could keep his head down and pull the brim of his hat lower…

If she did recognize him he'd have to run back to the hotel, and he'd have to run fast. If they sent officers to the store and he was already gone, they'd search the area and probably set a perimeter, blocking all roads out of town.

Still, he had to try. He'd done it at every gas station from Chicago to Georgia already anyways.

No one knew his voice, which helped, all they had to go on was his face. He did a quick mental list, trying to think of anything else they might need before paying. He couldn't think of anything; they had the basics with them and the hotel would have anything they didn't. But he did grab another cell phone on his way up to the check-out, figuring they'd each want one once they split, and set it and all the food onto the counter and looked down.

"Find everything ok?" the clerk greeted.

"Yup," he replied, slowly digging into his pocket for the cash he'd put in there, taking his time, hiding behind the brim of his hat.

She scanned one item after another, "You want a bag?"

"Yea, sure," he replied, slowly unfolding the bills as if he were counting them, never looking up, silently willing her to scan faster so he could get the hell out of there.

"Total is 57.64," she told him, setting his bag of items on the counter.

"Here, keep the change," he tossed 60 on the counter and grabbed the bag, turning towards the door.

"Thanks, have a good night," the clerk hollered after him.

The bell chimed again as the door swung open. She hadn't seen him; he exhaled a big breath as he crossed the small parking lot and found the sidewalk again. He hadn't seen her face aside from when he was still in the food aisle, so she couldn't have seen his, right?

He hated this, the paranoia. He kept walking at a quick pace, grocery bag in hand, and reminded himself that it was just a few more days. A few more days of never being able to look a stranger in the eyes, a few more days of hiding, and then he'd be across the border; sun, sand, and clear blue waters. His heart ached at the thought: freedom. Just a few more days…

The walk back to the hotel went by quickly, and he bounded up the stairs, more than ready to eat the food he'd bought.

He knocked on the door, "Hey man it's me, open up."

He could hear that the T.V. was on in the room and was about to knock again when he heard footsteps behind the door and the lock click open. Michael opened it for him and he walked past him, dumping the bag onto the table, "I got lots of stuff, what do you want?"

"Shh," Michael demanded, confusing Lincoln. Michael rushed back over to the T.V. after locking the door, and Lincoln followed.

He and Michael both stood in front of the T.V. now, recognizing the agent who'd chased them out of the cemetery, a memory that felt years ago, not days. The blue banner across the bottom read, "F.B.I. Agent Alexander Mahone."

It was strange seeing this man from the safety of a hotel room that was far away from him; they were able to really look at him, to hear his voice as he spoke about them.

"The fundamental mind of a man on the run hasn't changed; every day the paranoia settles deeper."

Lincoln cringed inwardly at the agent's accurate assessment; he was always looking over his shoulder or trying like hell not to.

"We're getting closer, and it's only a matter of time before they make a mistake; one, critical mistake," he paused, and the corner of his mouth turned up in a sly smile, "They all make one sooner or later."

The reporter wrapped up the interview, "Thank you Agent Mahone; if anyone has information on the whereabouts of these men, please call-"

Michael pressed a button on the remote and the T.V. went dark, he'd obviously heard enough.

Lincoln remained standing in front of the T.V., his arms crossed, "Doesn't matter anyways, Michael. Tomorrow you'll be free and clear, and I'll be," he shrugged, "about the same as I am now just in a different country."

Michael sat on the edge of the bed, looking up at him and spoke quietly, "What if they are close, Linc? What if they're a town away right now? What if they get to us before we get to Miami? What if-"

"Michael, stop," he cut him off, "come on man you know how the media blows stuff out of proportion," he said dismissively, "We've been careful, they can't know where we're at. Even if they do, I'll be out of the country tomorrow or the day after, and you'll be with The Company."

He cringed a little saying those words, but it was true. As far as he was concerned, this Agent Mahone couldn't lay a finger on Michael once The Company had him in their capable, murdering arms. They wanted him; and if they had to protect him from people like Mahone to get him, they would.

He realized that he didn't know much about what they actually did, who even was The Company? But he knew they had power, resources, and a lot of political allies; he didn't doubt that they could wipe the slate clean for Michael, and that they would, since it was in their best interest.

Michael said nothing, so Lincoln went back over to the table and started grabbing something to eat, "Want anything?" he asked.

"Uh," he was staring off into space, "I'm not really hungry anymore."

"You gotta eat something," he insisted, tossing him a bag of chips.

"Healthy," Michael commented sarcastically as he ripped the bag open.

"What can I say, all those days eating whatever was on chow…not anymore. I'm eating whatever the hell I want now," he replied with a smile, and they both laughed.

XXXXX

Sara couldn't stop thinking it: Michael loves her. And she'd said it back, which basically meant that she'd been a useless employee since he'd told her. It was hard to believe it had already been a full day since their conversation. Her head was still in the clouds and she knew it, but couldn't bring herself to change that, and didn't want to. It had been a long time since she'd felt that way; truly happy, which was a stark contrast to how she'd felt every waking hour since they'd escaped.

She'd felt like she was going insane, worried about him and Lincoln. Even when she was working, they were in the back of her mind, and when she was at home by herself in the evenings, they were all that was on her mind. Every hour, every day was practically torture; worrying and waiting.

The phone calls the day before had helped a lot; they were her saving grace, giving her something tangible to hang on to. Both of them were ok, Michael was getting the surgery he needed, and he wasn't shutting her out. And he loved her, she'd never forget that part.

Besides, she knew that worrying didn't help anything, but she wished she could fully convince herself that everything was ok. Her gut was in knots all the time, meaning that deep down something was still off; she had to pretend like nothing had happened, that there wasn't an emptiness, a massive shift of the ground beneath her feet because to everyone else at Fox River, it was just another normal day.

Of course, there was fall-out at the prison from the escape; policy changes, repairs being made to everything that had been vandalized in the process...there had been guys in and out of the infirmary almost constantly to repair the broken window. But for her, it was supposed to be business as usual. But it wasn't. She was missing one particular, tattoo-clad inmate who needed insulin.

Oh God, he needed insulin! How was he managing without it on the road?

Michael, what have you gotten yourself into, she thought, shaking her head.

He said he planned for the escape as much as possible, but did that include insulin? She'd have to make sure and ask him when he called next, whenever that might be.

She looked at the clock on the wall, ticking so slowly, that read 1:15pm. Her next appointment wasn't until 2 o'clock. She desperately wanted to call the brothers, but who knew if they even still had the cell phone they'd used yesterday. She scowled at the stack of paperwork on the corner of her desk, willing it to be frightened away and disappear, never to be seen again. Her efforts were in vain.

She sighed and grabbed the top file from the stack and opened it, staring at the pages without absorbing an ounce of information. Her eyes went out of focus until the page was a blur and she was officially spaced out.

Movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention as Katie opened the door, "You ok?" she asked, obviously having seen Sara in her daze.

"Uh," she almost waved it off and said yes, as she normally would, but decided to be honest, "you know what? No, not really. I can't focus."

Katie moved closer and pulled up a chair, "Anything I can help with?"

Sara's heart softened, and she gave a tired smile, thankful to have such a sweet coworker and friend, "I'm worried about him, Katie."

It wasn't a lie. She was worried; they were still on the run and Michael needed surgery, but that wasn't the reason she was currently distracted. She was distracted because she was love-sick, but she decided to leave that part out. The whole, "My head is in the clouds because I'm in love" part. No one could know that she'd had contact with the brothers, and no one could know about her relationship with Michael.

Katie gave a knowing smile, "I'm sorry," she paused a moment, starting to look sheepish, "you know, you're not the first correctional worker to fall for a con," she laughed softly.

Sara smiled and shook her head, "I feel ridiculous."

Katie reached out to touch her forearm, "No, don't feel ridiculous, you've got enough going on without beating yourself up for what you're feeling."

Sara smiled a little, knowing Katie was right, "I just wish I could know if they're ok."

"I know. But hearing from them would put you in a tough spot. I mean, you'd have to report it."

She grimaced inside, acknowledging her own failures to her profession and society. She had contact with a criminal on the run and didn't tell the authorities.

"Yea, I guess," she managed.

Her cell phone, which was next to her keyboard, started buzzing, the caller I.D. reading, "Unknown number."

"Uh, sorry Katie I need to take this," she blurted out as her heart started racing.

"Of course," she replied and got up, making her way to the door and clicking it shut behind her.

"Hello?"

"Hi," it was Michael.

She didn't waste any time, "How are you?"

"Ok I guess, considering."

"Quick question for you," she started, even though he was the one who called her.

"Uh, sure? What is it?"

"Do you have insulin with you? I didn't even think about it until this morning, but I wanted to make sure you have some. Complications from diabetes is the last thing you need right now."

She sensed his hesitation before he replied, "Uh...about that…"

She narrowed her eyes, confused, "What?"

"I'm not a diabetic," he replied with a cringe.

"What!?" she asked in disbelief.

"Yea, I kind of faked it so I could be in the infirmary more often."

She was shocked into silence, so many questions ran through her mind, "Ok, first of all, how do you fake diabetes? I tested your glucose levels."

"Pugnac."

She couldn't help but let out a small laugh, realizing he was even more clever than she'd thought, "How the hell did you get that?"

"I have my ways," she could practically see his smirk as he replied.

"Ok, but, why did you need to be in the infirmary more often?"

"Well, at first it was part of the plan...but that's a long story, better saved for another time," his voice got quieter, "but I have to admit…I didn't mind being there."

His words sent a shiver down her spine, "You're saying that you enjoyed being stuck with a needle as long as it was me doing it?"

"Yup."

"Michael Scofield, I had no idea you were such a romantic," she was grinning now.

"Oh, just you wait," he promised, and her mind flashed to the dinner he owed her.

"I look forward to it," she replied, but then her smile began to fade when she realized he'd been the one to call her, and they'd stalled long enough, "so uh, what's going on? Any updates?"

"Oh, yea," he seemed to have forgotten why he'd called too, "I uh, I just wanted to let you know that Christina is holding up her end of the deal, and the surgery is scheduled."

Her shoulders slumped over in relief, "Oh, thank God."

She could hear him smile, "Was somebody worried about me?"

She rolled her eyes. The little stinker was still flirting with her even under the circumstances, "Yes, I was worried about you. So, when is it happening, and where?"

"Tomorrow," he cleared his throat, "in Miami."

She nodded, "How far away are you?"

"Well, we were in Georgia last night, so we're almost there…maybe an hour or two left."

He sounded nervous. She didn't want to insult his masculinity, but she couldn't help but ask, "Are you scared?"

There was a long silence, "Eh."

Typical.

"Ok, here's what I think; I think you are scared, and you wouldn't be human if you weren't scared," she reassured, meaning every word. He didn't have to be a tough guy anymore, no prison rep to take care of, and certainly no need to fake a lack of human emotions to impress her.

He sounded so far away when he replied, "Yea, I guess."

Her heart went out to him. He was never the type to ask for help, so she decided to offer it instead, "Is there anything I can do?"

He hesitated, "Well, yea, but it's way too much to ask."

She shrugged, "Name it."

"I just," he paused, "I just wish you could be there with me when they do it. I kind of got used to having you next to my hospital bed and the thought of being alone in there, it's...it's scary," he admitted.

She could feel her heart swell in her chest. He was just willingly vulnerable with her, admitting his fears, and asking for help. She wasn't going to let him down.

"If you let me know exactly where it's happening, I'll be on the next flight."

"You….you will?" he asked in disbelief.

"Of course. I told you before, you're not alone in this, not for any of it. I'm here for you."

"What about work?"

She shrugged, "I can call out for a few days no problem. I have a lot of sick time built up."

"What if you get caught, you know, with me?"

"Well," she paused to consider, "the people doing the surgery sound like they can cover pretty much anything up, right? Shouldn't be too hard for them to make it look like I was never there."

"Fair point," he agreed. There was a long silence, "You're really coming?"

"Yes," she said with certainty.

"You're really coming," he repeated in disbelief, his voice thick, "you have no idea how much that means to me right now."

She smiled, blinking back the tears that were forming. Dammit she was falling for him fast, but didn't have the slightest interest in stopping, "Tell me where, and I'll be there."

XXXXX

Veronica was sitting on a park bench, contemplating. The park was a short walk from her apartment, and the sun was warm despite the early-spring chill in the air. She'd grabbed her phone and keys in a moment of spontaneity, shrugging her coat on and heading to her favorite spot in the park. It was a secluded wooden bench that was surprisingly comfortable, and offered a stunning view of Lake Michigan. The clear blue water glistened in the sun, the gentle waves crashing against the shore.

She was trying to decide what to do, because, like she'd told Sara, she couldn't do nothing. Did she bother pursuing the legal route to Lincoln's freedom anymore? She wasn't even a criminal lawyer, so the complicated nature of his case combined with the ramifications of the break-out and eluding the authorities...she was way out of her depth.

Everything about his case was irking her. She was, at this point, completely convinced that he was framed. When he was first convicted, she had assumed he'd done it, just like everyone else. Even remembering that now made her feel guilty, but she tried to forgive herself- she was only human, and they'd done one hell of a frame job. She fell for it.

But once she started looking into it, she became more and more convinced of his innocence. And now? Now she was 100% sure he'd been framed for one simple reason; if he had done it, there's no way he would have let Michael go through with breaking them out. The break out delayed Michael's medical care and put him in harm's way; Lincoln wouldn't have allowed that to happen if he was actually guilty. He would have taken the blame and protected Michael.

She heard the flutter of feathers as a sparrow landed next to her on the back of the bench, eyeballing her as it hopped around, tilting its head side to side. She didn't have any food with her, so it quickly lost interest and moved on.

Trying to trace back and untangle this mess of a case was going to take time. She didn't even know where to start; everything she'd done so far was to find evidence to prove that Lincoln was innocent and that someone else was therefore guilty. But that line of thinking wasn't going to work, because no one was guilty of murdering Steadman. What she needed to do now was learn more about who Steadman was, what business deals he might have been involved in, enemies he had, and maybe more importantly; who his friends were. Maybe he'd contacted someone; there could be phone records, money transfers…something to prove he was still alive.

She could feel a headache forming from just trying to figure out where to start, and that was just the legality of it all, she didn't even want to think about the emotional implications of a free-and-clear Lincoln.

Did she dare revisit that? She snuggled her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat, keeping them warm and trying to comfort herself with the self-protective gesture. They'd been good together. It had been easy for so long, they'd known each other for years and just naturally made a couple. She shook off the idea, not wanting to waste energy torturing herself. What if he didn't have feelings for her anyways? The whole thought process was a waste of time. Getting him free, legally, was the priority.

A jogger went by, led by the happiest looking Australian shepherd she'd ever seen, its tongue hanging out the side of its mouth, prancing ahead of its owner. She waved, and the jogger waved back, the interaction causing the dog to be even more excited, biting at the leash and pulling on it. She smiled and watched them continue on the path. Once they were out of sight, she decided it was about time for her to head back home. She'd rather leave on a high note anyways, and nothing she could think about would top the sight of a happy dog.

She got up and started walking back, hands still in her coat pockets, enjoying the sun on her face. Her right hand was naturally curled around her cell phone that also occupied her pocket, and when she was about halfway home, she felt it vibrate.

She pulled it out and saw she had a text from Sara, "Hey, he decided to have the surgery. It's happening tomorrow. I'm flying out tonight to be with him during the recovery. Just thought you'd want to know."

She started typing immediately, "I'm glad he's going through with it," she smiled to herself, thinking of Sara going out of her way to be with him, "and I'm glad you'll be there with him." she almost hit send, but on second thought added, "Any idea what his brother is going to do?"

She replied, "Me too. And uhhh, no I actually don't know. He won't be there with him, that's all I know. He can't be...for obvious reasons."

Right. Figures. Lincoln is still a fugitive and isn't included in the negotiation that grants Michael his freedom. She was slightly bitter about that. Michael got the better deal because he's a genius. It wasn't Lincoln's fault he wasn't blessed, and sometimes cursed, with low latent inhibition. But whatever, she cared deeply for Michael too, and was beyond relieved that his life would be saved, and he'd be pardoned. She just wished that Lincoln had the same opportunity.

She texted back, "Right. Let me know how things go ok? And thanks for keeping me in the loop."

She really did appreciate it and was thankful to have a friend in all this. After a moment's hesitation she texted again, "Hey, would you want to grab coffee sometime? Or dinner? Once you're back of course."

The reply came graciously quickly, not allowing her time to second guess herself, "Of course-I'll be in touch!"

"Perfect! Safe travels," she slid her phone back into her pocket, and walked the rest of the way home with a smile on her face.


	15. Chapter 15

Author's note: hope you're all enjoying the story! Reviews and follows and all that jazz always make my day-feel free to share your thoughts :) Happy reading!

XXXXX

It had already been about an hour since he'd talked to Sara, and he still couldn't believe she was flying down to be with him. He was lost in thought, gazing out the window at the sunshine and palm trees, wishing he was on vacation.

"You sure about this Michael?"

They were taking an exit into Miami, only about twenty minutes from where Christina had told them to go. It was midafternoon, and he was glad he'd have the rest of the day to settle in and get things taken care of with regards to his surgery. There had to be paperwork, right? Payment? He couldn't know, but he had a feeling he wasn't just going to waltz into the operating room the next day without preamble.

"I'm as sure as I'll ever be," he replied, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach. Of course, hewasn'tsure-it was a real gamble he was taking, but he felt like he had to. Just that morning he'd had another bad nosebleed, accompanied with a lot of pain and almost blacking out. At this point, his fear of the surgery was outweighed by his fear of doing nothing. He couldn't wait.

Lincoln nodded, "I'll drop you off close by, but I can't go in there with you."

"I know," Michael replied. They couldn't risk Lincoln being within sight of the Company headquarters…or whatever the heck the building was that they were heading to.

"And look, I uh, I got another cell phone at the store last night so we each have one. I put mine and Sara's number in the one for you."

"Thank you," he looked over at Lincoln, his steady presence behind the wheel. Since Michael's nosebleed that morning, Lincoln had driven all day, never complaining, "and thank you for taking me there. I know this wasn't the plan-"

"-the plan didn't involve a lot of this, Michael. Sometimes you just gotta go with the flow."

"I know," he sighed.

"I know you don't like not having a plan, but I'll be alright. I can take care of myself."

Michael glanced out the window and smirked, "Yes, I know you're perfectly capable of crossing the border with a fake I.D. like a good little criminal all by yourself."

Lincoln chuckled, "Didn't say I was proud of it, but it is something I'm actually good at."

"Hey, you're good at other things too."

"Oh yea?" he glanced over at Michael, "Like what?"

He paused, "Like fishing for compliments."

They both laughed as Lincoln turned left at the light, "Ok so," Lincoln said, getting back to business, "the building should be down here on the right."

It was obvious which one it was, the only building on the whole street that obviously employed talented engineers. The building was massive, glass windows instead of walls facing the outside, a perfectly manicured courtyard in the front. There was a fancy coffee cart in the courtyard, benches and tables occupied by well-dressed men and women, and beautiful pink and orange flowers lining the sidewalks.

"That has to be it," Michael pointed, "drop me off a few blocks away and I'll walk."

They drove closer and saw the building number, confirming that it was the right place.

"Ok," Lincoln turned on his blinker and rounded the block, crossing a few more streets before finding an open parking spot. He pulled into it and got out, putting a quarter in the meter. They wouldn't be long, but there was no reason to risk a ticket.

Michael got out too, grabbing his backpack and putting his baseball cap on along with a pair of sunglasses, disguising himself as best he could for the short walk he had.

He didn't know what to say, so he just went over and hugged Lincoln.

"Good luck," Lincoln said simply as he hugged him back.

"You too, be in touch," he looked him in the eyes, searching for confirmation. He had to know that after all this, Lincoln made it safely to Panama.

"I will," he promised, "and hey."

"Yea?"

He smirked, "Say hi to your girl for me."

He grinned and nodded, "I will," and with that, Lincoln got back into the driver's seat and Michael turned around, heading down the block with a smile on his face.

It felt good to be on his feet after sitting for so long, and the weather was beautiful; sunny and clear, with a faint floral smell in the air. He walked the couple of blocks and ventured off the main sidewalk and into the courtyard he'd seen from the car. He realized as he approached the door, he really didn't know what to say or expect. The place didn't look like a hospital, so walking in and saying, "Hey, I'm here for brain surgery," didn't seem logical, but he opened the door anyways, knowing he had to start somewhere.

The inside was just as impressive as the outside, he noted, as he strolled across the marble floors, past a sculpture in the center of the lobby, and to the front desk.

"Hi, can I help you?" the young woman behind the front desk asked Michael. He already felt out of place; everyone in the building was dressed business professional, and he was in jeans and gray button up shirt…with a backpack and a baseball cap. If the woman behind the desk noticed, she didn't let her judgement of him betray her, and her eyes remained kind and professional.

"Yes, uh, Christina Scofield is expecting me."

"Of course, let me give her a call," she picked up the phone and started dialing, "and what was your name, sir?"

"Michael," he replied, leaving the last name out of the picture for now.

She nodded, "Christina I have a Michael here for you," she paused to listen, "of course." She hung up the phone and addressed him, "She'll be down shortly, please make yourself comfortable," she gestured to the wide open lobby, "there's water, coffee and tea over there if you'd like, bathrooms are down the hall."

He nodded, "Thank you."

The building was nice, he couldn't deny that. The lobby was open and inviting, with high ceilings and a calming color palate of grays and blues. There were comfortable couches and chairs scattered around, many of them facing the glass walls that looked out over the nicely manicured courtyard. He considered taking a seat on one, but instead wandered over towards the corner. He chose a chair that faced inward, towards the lobby, not wanting to be caught off-guard; he needed to see whatever was coming his way. He didn't want Christina to startle him from behind, giving her the upper hand from the get-go.

He slung his backpack off and took a seat, leaning back and stretching his arms out onto the arm rests. There was a water fixture next to him that covered the wall from floor to ceiling; an expanse of smooth, gray rock with water trickling down it into a pool below. He listened to it, trying to drown out everything else, to steady his breathing and have a calm, centered frame of mind when Christina decided to come down to get him.

The serenity didn't last long, and his mind started nagging him, conjuring up a variety of bad scenarios that involved Lincoln not making it safely to Panama. They'd only split a short while ago, but he hated being separated and not knowing every minute that he was alright, that he hadn't been caught. They'd come so far, that the thought of either one of them not making it out alive, and not making it to a place where they could enjoy some freedom for the rest of their lives…the thought of it alone was enough to have him deeply disturbed.

He drummed his fingers absentmindedly on the arm of the chair. The elevator, which was to the left of the reception desk, dinged and the doors began to open. His heart started pounding even though he couldn't see who it was yet, but his instincts were right; Christina exited the elevator, walking slowly yet confidently towards him.

It was still strange to see her alive and in person, despite already having seen her at Fox River. She was dressed in an all-white suit, accessorized with gold jewelry and a purse that gleamed as she walked. She was alone, and for some reason that surprised him; he'd expected her to be flanked by men with large guns…he didn't know why, but he did. The fact that she came un-armed and by herself meant she wasn't as much of a threat to him; at least not for now.

He straightened in his seat, and then decided to stand, knowing he would tower above her, and hoping that the difference in height would give him a sense of control, and make him feel like he wasn't at her mercy.

Her heels clicked as she made her way across the lobby, "Hello, Michael," she greeted with a smug grin.

"Christina," he replied coolly.

"Can I show you to my office? I'd rather speak in private if that's ok," she asked.

Knowing he didn't really have a choice, he nodded, grabbed his bag, and followed as she turned and went back to the elevator. They got in and the door closed, a silence falling between them as she pressed the button for the fourth floor.

"So," she began, clasping a hand over her other opposite wrist, "looks like you've had quite a week."

"You could say that," he agreed.

"I'm glad you decided to go through with it, Michael."

He didn't know how to respond. He certainly wasn't glad to be here. Sure, he was grateful for the operation…and the fact that they could erase his criminal record, but he felt like he was selling his soul in exchange. That's what happened when people started working for The Company, right? They abandon everything they've ever known, everyone they love, and dedicate their life to their work. The follow orders, often blindly, and hurt or even kill people without question. He didn't want that.

"I know what you're thinking," she said, her eyes piercing his, but showing a hint of amusement, "you're thinking, "Why did I agree to work for these people? These horrible people who do horrible things," right?"

"Pretty much," he agreed, his eyes still fixated on the elevator doors.

The elevator stopped, and the door opened. As they stepped out she replied, "You'll come to understand that…not everything is as it seems here, Michael. There are reasons why we do what we do."

"I don't want to know."

"You will know," she snapped back with a ferocity he hadn't expected, "you work forusnow whether you like it or not."

His stomach sank at her words, but he swallowed the fear and discomfort and continued to follow her. It was a long, bright hallway leading to her office; it was almost too bright, the sunlight and artificial light merging and causing him to squint, fearing the headache that usually followed. He couldn't deal with that now, not in front of her and not when they had important matters to discuss. He took a few deep breaths and kept his eyes as closed as possible.

Her office was a corner office all the way at the end. She pulled the door open and gestured for him to enter, "Set your bag down and take a seat."

He did as instructed and walked into her spacious office, setting his bag down just inside the door and taking the baseball cap off as well, figuring his "disguise" wasn't needed anymore. Christina had already sat down in one of the chairs circling a beautiful, glass coffee table in the center of the room. He took the seat opposite her.

"So," he started, "the surgery is tomorrow."

"As promised," she confirmed, "I arranged for you to meet with the doctors tomorrow morning if you'd like. They can go over the details with you."

"Ok," he agreed, glad he'd at least get the chance to say hello to the people who'd be cutting into his brain.

"But never mind that," she continued, "I'd like to discuss the terms of our deal."

He sighed, of course she did. He was worried about having brain surgery the next day but no, she wanted to talk about what he owed her.

"Fine," he agreed.

"But first," she picked up a decanter from on the table and poured herself a glass of scotch, "would you like a drink?" she met his eyes, the decanter hovering over another, empty glass.

"No thanks," he replied coolly, refusing to give her the satisfaction.

"Suit yourself," she replied, setting it down and taking a sip from her glass. She sighed contentedly and leaned back in her chair.

"So," she began, "The Company is willing to provide this operation at no monetary cost to you. They'll monitor your recovery here for the first few days and then provide you with a hotel room once you're well enough to be on your own."

"Ok," that all sounded right so far, although his mind was stuck on the word, "monetary"; he owed them…just not money.

"Once you're well enough, per our Doctor's assessment, you'll start working. I also assume you'll be moving to the area; finding housing will be your responsibility once you've worn out your welcome at the hotel. You won't be a rushed, but it's something to keep in mind."

"Ok," he said more slowly this time, "but…what kind of work?"

She smiled, "You'll be employed as an engineer of course."

"I figured, but I mean…what kind of stuff will I be working on?"

She took another sip and set her glass down, "That's classified information."

"You," he paused in disbelief, "you won't even tell me what I'm being hired to do?"

"Not until you're recovered and ready to start."

"Let me be clear," he leaned forward, growing agitated, "if what you're hiring me for involves harming another human being, pointing guns at people heads…framing people," he stared daggers at her, "then count me out."

"Oh, Michael," she waved a hand, "there are plenty of Company employees who're far dumber than you to do the grunt work. We're interested in your mind. You won't be carrying a gun on the job anytime soon."

He held her gaze, not sure how he felt about dumb people walking around with guns either, but that was a conversation for another time.

"How long do I have to recover?" he asked.

"A week or two, but it'll depend on your progress of course."

"What time is the surgery tomorrow? And where?" he needed to know not only for himself, but he had to tell Sara too.

"Your surgery will be performed here. This building has everything, one of the benefits of working for a Company that employs so many engineers. The tenth floor is all medical personnel and researchers; that's where your surgery will be done and where you'll be monitored during recovery."

He nodded, "Is there a hotel nearby?"

She looked confused, "Well, there are several, but the one you'll be staying at between recovery and finding a more long-term place to live just two blocks away," she tilted her head slightly, "Why do you ask?"

"I'll have a guest who needs a place to stay that's…close," he offered, not wanting to share the details.

Her brows furrowed but only for a moment, then her expression went back to neutral, "A guest? And who might this friend be?"

He didn't respond, and her eyes grew wide, "Not Lincoln?" she questioned as if that would be the most abhorrent thing in the world.

"No," he confirmed, "Lincoln wanted to be with me through all of this, but your persistence in trying to kill him made that impossible."

She looked amused, "Then, who? I'm not trying to be coy, Michael I really do need to know who it is so I can give their information to reception. That's the only way they'll be allowed into the building to see you," she explained with a twinkle in her eye.

He held her gaze, "Sara," he said simply, "Sara Tancredi."

The corners of her mouth turned up slightly in understanding, "Ahh," she drawled out, "Sara," she paused and stared at him, as if she were trying to see into his mind. He didn't like it.

"Yes, Sara. If you don't mind I'd like to get settled in soon, I've got a big day ahead of me."

"Of course," she got up and he did the same, heading towards the door, "You'll be staying on the tenth floor today in the room where you'll be recovering. It's quite comfortable, and that way all of your belongings will already be settled."

"Sounds good," he agreed as he slung his backpack over his shoulders and followed her out of her office, squinting before even getting into the hallway, bracing himself for the bright lights.

The elevator ride up to the tenth floor was about as uncomfortable as he expected. He couldn't decide how he felt and didn't know how to act towards Christina as a result. The mixture of emotions led him to simply stand there, staring at the elevator doors, and not saying a word. Despite his best efforts, he was getting a headache again too which didn't help, so he was more than ready to get to his room and decompress.

Christina led him to his room and opened the door; she was right, it was quite, "comfortable" as she'd put it. While it was reminiscent of a hospital room, with a hospital bed and a few machines next to it, the rest of the room was like an upscale hotel room. It was huge. There was a set of four chairs and a coffee table near a large window, a dresser, a desk with a computer, a small refrigerator, sink, and microwave. He had no idea how that was even allowed, weren't hospital rooms supposed to be kept more sterile than that? But he tried not to question it.

"The doctors will be in touch tomorrow morning; they should come get you to discuss your surgery around 9am, and the surgery itself will happen in the afternoon. If you need anything just call reception, the number is by the phone."

"Thanks," he replied simply as she shut the door and he let out a long exhale. He set his bag down in one of the chairs and went to the window; he had a nice view from the tenth floor and he watched people walking around down below. He'd loved that about his apartment in Chicago, being on an upper floor and watching the city life from above. It had always calmed his mind, had been a welcome break from designing a building or planning the escape, and it had the same effect on him today. He sat down cross-legged on the floor by the window and rested his forearms on his legs, watching the bustle of life below and letting his mind wander.

This was really happening. Tomorrow was the big day…maybe his last day. The thought had crossed his mind before, but he hadn't dared to entertain the idea until now. Surgeries could go wrong even with the best of intentions, and he still wasn't sure that The Companies motives were pure.

Strangely enough, Christina's refusal to tell him anything about what he'd be working on after his recovery provided him with a little bit of comfort; if they intended to kill him on the table tomorrow, she could've told him all The Company secrets, knowing he'd never live to tell another soul anyways.

He sighed, knowing that his current avenue of thinking wasn't leading him anywhere he wanted to be. He was at the mercy of the surgeons; and there wasn't anything he could do at this point to change that. He had a long night ahead of him, and got up to start unpacking his few belongings, trying to cast his worries aside, and hoping for the best for the day ahead.

XXXXX

The line at the airport was long. Sara had gotten there two hours early and it looked like it was a good thing she did. She'd left work that day right after her 4 o'clock appointment and went straight home to pack and book her flight. The only options were a red-eye that night or an early flight in the morning; she opted for the red-eye, not wanting to get into Miami the same day Michael had his surgery. If there were any delays, there was a chance she wouldn't get there in time, and she couldn't risk that.

She liked to travel light and only had a carry-on, so she went past bag check and straight to the security line, feeling the butterflies appearing in her stomach as she approached it, the reality sinking in. She was nervous about seeing him again, especially so…out of context. They would be seeing each other outside of Fox River, and she wasn't his doctor anymore. Would they have anything to talk about? How well did they even know each other?

"Next," the TSA agent called, snapping her out of her thoughts.

She handed him her driver's license and boarding pass.

He scanned it and looked up at her, "Miami, huh? Heading for some warmer weather?"

"Uh," she stammered, not even thinking that normal people from Chicago go to Florida to get away from the cold, "something like that."

He chuckled, "You don't sound too excited."

"Sorry, been a long day," she said with a laugh, not wanting to go into detail and figuring it was a good excuse.

"Ugh, I feel that. God help us both."

She laughed and thanked him, moving with the line and putting her bag into the bins. Was she really doing this? It had been a long time since she'd done something so spontaneous, she made the decision to fly that morning and booked the flight a few hours later. She brushed off the uncertainty; it was kind of late to back out now…and she didn't want to back out. She'd end up sitting at home regretting the fact that she'd chickened out, and she couldn't do that to Michael. He wanted her to be there. The thought made her smile.

She watched absent-mindedly as the guy in front of her slid his belt out of its loops, took his hat off, took a laptop out of its bag, emptied his pockets of change, and removed his watch. It made her really glad she packed light and wore the simple outfit of jeans and a green sweater. She simply removed her shoes and put them in the bin, waiting for the line to move.

The focus was on Michael, she reminded herself. She was there for moral support at his request, and she'd do whatever she could to get him through the rough days ahead and aid in his recovery. The details were all a bit fuzzy though, and maybe that's partly what was bugging her. Once she got to Miami, she didn't know where to go and didn't know how long his recovery should be-she had a general idea but nothing concrete.

She'd told Warden Pope she'd be off work for a week, maybe longer, for a family matter. He had graciously told her not to worry about them and wished her luck, but that they'd greatly miss her while she was gone. She hated skipping work because no one was there to cover for her; she was it, the one physician on staff. All of the routine work would fall to Katie, but any emergencies would mean that the inmate would have to be transferred to a nearby hospital, which in theory is fine, but it's an expensive and cumbersome process, which is why they'd hired her in the first place. She tried not to think about it, keeping the guilt at bay. They'd manage without her…they were gonna have to.

The line moved forward and she made her way through, collecting her bag and slipping her shoes back on. She checked the board for her flight number and started heading towards her gate. It felt so familiar and comfortable being in an airport again. She used to travel all the time but hadn't taken a trip in forever. She racked her brain, trying to figure out when she had last taken a vacation or even stayed in a hotel…she honestly couldn't remember, and that was sad.

Maybe the TSA agent had been right, she needed to enjoy the warm weather and tropical vibes while she could, even if that meant staring at palm trees from Michael's hospital room…or from her hotel room. She'd booked a room, not knowing if he wanted her to spend the nights there or not, and finding comfort in the fact that she'd have a space of her own if needed.

She found her gate and took a seat, putting her bag on the floor in front of her, realizing how tired she was. She glanced at her phone and realized it wasjust after eleven o'clock, and in her defense, she'd worked a full ten-hour day that started around six that morning. The clock validated her fatigue even though she knew she shouldn't need it to. If she's tired, she's tired, and shouldn't feel the need to prove that she deserved to feel that way, but she did.

She didn't sleep well on airplanes which was an inconvenience, but a little dozing off would be better than nothing. She was set to get into Miami around 4am and would take a cab to a hotel nearby; she was staying close to the airport since she didn't know where Michael's surgery was happening and figured she'd be desperate for an actual bed by the time her flight got in.

Dinner hadn't happened, she realized with a pang in her stomach, but it was too late for that anyways. She didn'treallyfeel hungry, she just felt tired…and anxious, which was an unpleasant combination. The clock glared at her from the wall, reminding her that she had about an hour until she was set to board her flight, so she sat back, crossing one leg over the other.

She watched as people walked past her, some speed walking, others half asleep with neck pillows draped on their shoulders. A group of four business men walked past, well dressed, with their brief cases and designer suits, leaving a subtle cloud of expensive cologne in their wake. It made her think of her father, seeing men like that always did, and it always gave her a slightly queasy feeling, leaving a bad taste in her mouth.

He traveled all the time for work too, always catching a flight here and there, which is why the thing she remembered about him most from growing up was his damn briefcase. That dark brown, leather briefcase that was always at his side. Whenever it was stationed by the door, it meant dad had an early morning flight. To where? She never knew; he didn't bother telling her where and didn't bother saying goodbye. It was as if he expected her, even as a small child, to understand and respect the fact that work took priority over family. If he had to leave, that's just the way it was, and he'd be back whenever he was back.

Her jaw clenched at the memories. She'd always hoped that someday, things would be different. That perhaps, when she was older, they would have more in common, that he would respect her and value her opinion. But the opposite had happened. The older she got, the less he wanted anything to do with her. She knew it was partly because of her struggles with addiction, and sheunderstoodthat. It had been hard on both of them, though for different reasons. She was fighting her battles and he was trying to make sure her battles didn't cloud his political reputation. He'd admitted her to treatment programs and had paid for them, but it didn't take a rocket-scientist to figure out that he did it out of self-interest, and he continued to operate out of self-interest.

His refusal to even allow Veronica more time to look into Lincoln's case was just another example, and it made her wonder how things might have been different. If he had granted them more time, and Veronica found enough evidence to exonerate Lincoln, where would they all be? Lincoln would be free, obviously, but Michael would still be at Fox River. He would have had his surgery already and would be back in his cell. She'd still be his doctor, having to do her best to keep a professional distance, to keep her own walls up when she was around him and being careful not to get too close. She wouldn't be able to visit him like she was going to do now…to have that dinner he'd promised.

She couldn't help it and let out a soft laugh to herself, shaking her head, did that really mean that she owed thanks to her father for being able to date Michael right now? That couldn't possibly be right.

The gate agent's announcement derailed her train of thought, and she was grateful. She grabbed her bag and stood up, along with everyone else, and moved into the line that was forming by the door for boarding. She had a long night ahead of her, and an even longer day ahead of that. She only hoped she'd be able to catch a little bit of sleep on the flight down, but she wasn't holding her breath. With that less than encouraging thought, she scanned her boarding pass and walked onto the plane, bracing herself as best she could for whatever tomorrow might hold.


	16. Chapter 16

Michael held his cell phone in his hand, anxiously waiting. It was six in the morning and he'd been awake on and off all throughout the night. This was the first time he'd been alone in…well, since before he was incarcerated, and it was strange. But to him, it was strange that it was strange; he'd lived alone in Chicago for years, and now suddenly he couldn't sleep one night in a room by himself?

What he really needed was some conversation, something to keep his mind off what was about to happen, and he wanted that conversation to be with Sara. He had to call her and let her know where he was, and where she was supposed to go, but was it too early? Was she even in Miami yet? He assumed that she would want to meet the doctors with him, and that was happening in three hours. If she was still asleep and across town, he should let her know sooner rather than later, right? Would she be irritated if he woke her up? Maybe she was an angry morning person…

His mind was going around and around, and he knew it. Unable to handle it anymore, he found Sara's number in the phone Lincoln had given him and called her, his heart pounding.

It took four rings before she picked up with a groggy, "Hello?"

"Hi," he replied, unsure of where to begin, "it's me."

There was silence for a minute, "Hey," she replied, still not fully awake.

He smiled a little, enjoying the sound of her sleepy voice, "Sorry if I woke you I just, I didn't know how far away you were and I'm meeting with the doctors at nine this morning. I was hoping you could be there with me."

"Oh," she replied, starting to perk up a little, "yea, uh, I'm at a hotel close to the airport but I can be there, just let me know the address."

He recited the address to her and she repeated it back to him, "I'll be there in about an hour or so," she confirmed.

"Thank you."

"I'll see you soon."

All the nerves he had before the phone call had disappeared. That was a pattern he was noticing, he'd always be anxious before talking to her and calmer afterwards. She had been asleep, but wasn't angry for being awoken, and was getting ready to come be with him. He couldn't ask for much more than that.

The next hour passed by painfully slowly. He tried turning on the T.V. but couldn't pay attention to anything. He wandered aimlessly around the room, running his fingers along the pieces of furniture, familiarizing himself with the room he'd be spending the next few weeks in. The room itself mimicked the lobby he'd entered in the day before; grays and blues, modern but with nods to nature woven in. It felt clean and comfortable, relaxing yet conducive to losing himself in deep thought…he could have done some good scheming in a room like this.

The thought irritated him. He liked the room, the lobby, and the whole building. It was as if The Company was using his appreciation of solid engineering and design to butter him up, easing him into the idea of working for them, and making him believe it wasn't such a bad idea.

Of course, that couldn't be; the building had been here long before they'd agreed to give him brain surgery and a job, but still. He didn't want to like anything about The Company, whether they had good taste or not.

Finally, he decided to sit down at the computer to check the news. Lincoln hadn't made any headlines since they'd parted ways, and that gave him a small comfort, since the words he'd heard Agent Mahone speak from the motel T.V. still haunted him. The agent was too confident, and made it sound like they were closing in on them. Now that Michael was with The Company, he was relatively safe, but he couldn't say the same about Lincoln.

He looked at the clock and figured Sara wouldn't be there for another twenty minutes or so, and decided to give Lincoln a call. He wasn't sure how busy the rest of his day would be, and calling a felon on the run wasn't something he wanted to do if there were doctors coming in and out of his room all the time.

Lincoln picked up quickly, "Hey."

"Hey, everything going ok?" he could hear the road noise in the background.

"Yup."

Always a man of few words, Michael thought with a small smile, "Where are you now?"

"Panama."

"What!?" he asked incredulously, his brows furrowing. There's no way he could be that far already.

"City, Florida," Lincoln continued and laughed, "but I had you for a second."

"No you didn't," he lied, smiling now.

"How are you, man? Is it still happening today?"

"Yup," he replied, "this afternoon. I'm meeting with the doctors in a bit to go over everything though."

"Is she there yet?" he asked, referring to Sara.

"Not yet, but she should be soon."

He paused for a moment, "You're in good hands."

"I'm not so sure."

"Maybe not the surgeon's," he clarified, "but hers. She'll keep an eye out for you, I know it. If you believe anything, believe that."

He sighed, finding a small relief in Lincoln's sentiment, "Thanks."

"Don't worry about me, I'll be alright. I'll let you know once I make it."

"I'll try," he paused, not wanting to end the conversation to end already, but grateful to have had the chance to talk at all, "be safe."

"You too."

The line went dead, and he sighed. Lincoln would hopefully cross the border tomorrow, while he'd be in recovery. He had no idea what to expect as far as his mental capacity in the next few days, but he hoped he'd be aware enough to be able to check in with Linc again, to make sure he'd made it alright.

The landline on the desk began to ring and startled him. He picked it up, "Hello?"

"Hello, Michael," the familiar voice of the receptionist greeted him, "I have Sara here for you."

His stomach flip-flopped and his pulse thudded, he swallowed hard, "Ok, she can come up."

"I'll send her your way," she replied cheerfully.

"Thank you," he hung up and willed himself to calm down. Was this going to happen all the time? Calling her on the phone or even the anticipation of seeing her in person had his pulse racing, palms sweating, and his nerves a frazzled mess. No woman had even made him feel like that before. It was unsettling.

He waited, trying to picture her walking to the elevator and getting on, the time it would take to rise ten floors and for her to walk down the hallway. If his estimate was correct, she'd be getting to his room right about…he held his breath and there was a knock at the door. Now.

He got up from the desk and went to the door, pausing for a brief moment and taking a breath before clicking the handle down and opening the door.

Seeing her in person before him, finally, stunned him into silence. An overwhelming wave of emotions, too many to count or even identify, came over him. They mixed together and short circuited something in his mind. He knew she was coming, but that obviously hadn't prepared him for everything he would feel, looking at her in front of him now.

"Hey," she greeted almost shyly, brushing a strand of auburn hair behind her ear.

He took in everything about her appearance, his mind working overdrive to not miss a single detail. She had a purse draped over her shoulder along with her slightly wavy hair, and she was wearing jeans and a simple, green, V-neck t-shirt. He'd never seen her in jeans before, he realized. It was always black or gray dress pants when she was at Fox River. He decided he liked her in jeans.

Her eyes met his with a questioning look and he realized he'd been staring for an abnormal length of time, "Hi," he replied with a smile, gathering his thoughts, "come on in," he stepped backwards and gestured for her to enter.

"Thanks," she replied as she walked in, immediately pausing and looking around, "whoa…nice place."

"Yea I thought so too," he agreed, despite his best efforts not to like it.

"But I'm confused, is this a hospital room or a hotel?" she asked, her eyes still wandering around the room.

He chuckled, "I wondered the same thing but uh, I guess this is where I'll be recovering."

She nodded and looked at him, halting a few feet in front of him. Her eyes stopped roaming the room and met his. They were expectant, yet uncertain, wanting there to be clarity between them, expecting either of them to know just what to say to make things comfortable between them again after what felt like months of being apart. But there was a silence that fell instead, a blanket trying to suppress the buzzing excitement of seeing each other again. She fought the suppression, the awkwardness of silence and stillness, by turning around briefly, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and setting it on the desk, then turning back to face him.

"Thank you," he started, desperate to move them forward, and she tilted her head in confusion, "thank you for being here. It means a lot to me."

She lowered her head, crossing her arms and shuffling her feet, "You're welcome."

"I know it couldn't have been easy to make it here on such short notice," he offered lamely, as if making a last-minute trip to Florida was the top concern she had right now.

"It's ok, they had space on a flight last night," she said nonchalantly.

"What time did you get in?" he wondered.

"Uh, around four this morning."

His eyes widened, "You only got two hours of sleep!?"

She shrugged, "Yup, I'll live."

He looked unconvinced, so she pressed on, pointing a finger at him, "Michael, don't you dare worry about me right now, ok? You've got bigger things to worry about."

"That's not true," he said with certainty.

"What?" she asked in confusion.

"You said I have bigger things to worry about besides you; that's not true."

"Michael," she smiled and lowered her head again, "I'm ok. You're the one having surgery today so can you please take this one opportunity to put yourself first? To not worry about everyone else before yourself?"

He sighed, "No, but I guess I can pretend if it makes you happier."

She chuckled and rolled her eyes, "Well…I guess I'll take what I can get for now."

His eyes hadn't left her since she'd entered the room, but he found himself staring with more intensity again. He was afraid if he looked away she'd disappear, that this was a dream. She was here, simply because he'd asked her to be.

"God, I can't believe you're really here," he breathed out, moving closer and taking her in his arms. Any tension in the room dissolved as she wound her arms around his waist and rested her cheek against his chest. It felt the same way it had at Fox River, when he'd broken in her arms. Then and now, he was comforted by her steady presence, and her willingness to support him no matter what circumstances were thrown their way.

"I'm here," she reassured, running a hand up and down his back.

He held her tighter and felt a shaky exhale leave his chest. They stood like that for a while, and he could feel his mind lulling as her hand continued moving up and down his back. His cheek rested comfortably on the top of her head, inhaling the subtle, clean scent of shampoo with every breath. He realized her hand movements were slowing, her head becoming heavier against his chest, and her breathing slowed.

"Sara?" he asked gently, bringing his chin to his chest to look down at her.

"Hmm?" she murmured.

"You ok?"

"Mmm," she replied sleepily.

He smiled, knowing she was about to fall asleep standing up if he didn't stop her, "Why don't I look around and see if I can find you a cup of coffee."

"Mmkay," she agreed with a sigh.

He guided her over to one of the chairs and she slumped into it. He went to the mini kitchen he had and found a small coffee maker, enough to make one cup at a time. He found coffee grounds in one of the drawers and started the machine, wandering back over to her while he waited for it to brew.

He made his way over to her chair and found her gazing lazily out the window.

"I'm awake," she declared proudly, glancing over at him with a small smile.

He smiled, "I know, and you can always sleep later if you need to…you know, during the surgery."

She looked at him as if he'd sprouted another head, "Yea, there's no way I'm sleeping while you're in there."

"But you could," he emphasized, "I won't know the difference."

She gazed out the window again, "I wanna keep an eye on you if I can. If they'll let me in there with you, that's where I'll be."

He couldn't help but smile, remembering what Lincoln had said, "She'll keep an eye out for you."

"What?" she asked, wondering what made him smile.

"Nothing I just…Lincoln told me I was in good hands, and that you'd watch out for me."

"I knew I liked him," she said smugly, a gleam in her eyes. She rested her elbow on the armrest and her cheek against her fist, her voice more serious now, "so, now that you've been here a day and had a little time to think...do you trust them, Michael?"

He sighed, "For the surgery…kind of. They seem genuinely interested in employing me, so I'd be no use to them dead. Beyond that, only time will tell I guess."

She nodded, her eyes still searching his, "I guess that's comforting…in a morbid kind of way."

"Right," he agreed as he stood up and went over to grab her mug, "Do you want cream or sugar? I might be able to find some somewhere."

"Nah, black is fine," he walked back and handed it to her, "thanks," she grabbed it gratefully and took a sip. He took a seat in the chair across from her.

"So," she started, already acting more alert, "we're meeting with the doctors soon?"

"Yup, they're supposed to come get me at nine."

"Have you thought of any questions for them?"

He paused, "Not really. I think I have so many questions that I can't actually come up with one. There's so much I don't know, that I don't even know where to start. If that makes sense."

She nodded, "There's a lot of unknowns, and I have questions too. Do you mind if I ask them a few things?"

"Of course not," he paused, "that's one of the many reasons I'm glad you're here."

She smiled and took another sip of her drink, "I'm happy to be here too."

"Really?" he questioned. He'd dragged her out of her normal life to stay with him as he recovered…from brain surgery. He didn't anticipate himself being the most interesting company for her to keep over the next week or two.

"Michael," she said almost sternly. She set down her mug on the coffee table and leaned forward, folding her hands in front of her, "Why do you think I'm here?"

He froze, any words he could possibly hope for came to a screeching halt in his throat. He knew why he hoped she was there, but wasn't anywhere near certain enough to say it out loud, "Uhh-"

"I'm here for you," She interrupted, "because I care about you. This isn't a sympathy visit for everything that went on at Fox River with Lincoln…or you. This isn't a literal guilt "trip" for me to somehow make up for the fact that my father was pulling the strings of his execution. This is about you, about…us."

He met her eyes, amazed at the confidence in her voice. He'd wondered about all of those things but was too hesitant to speak of it. She certainly didn't beat around the bush, which was something he rather liked about her. He remembered being just as surprised at her directness when she'd confronted him at Fox River, asking him why he didn't tell her from the get-go that Lincoln was his brother.

"I like the sound of "us"." he agreed as his heart fluttered, "I just didn't want to…I wanted to make sure that I wasn't making something out of nothing," he cringed slightly as the words left his mouth. Whatever they had, it certainly wasn't nothing. "I mean- "

She smiled, "-I get it, Michael. You wanted to make sure it wasn't one sided and that I didn't have an ulterior motive for coming here. I don't. I care about you more than I like to admit," she cleared her throat now and looked down at her hands, sounding a little less self-assured, "and I didn't want you going through this alone."

She kept her head down for a moment, her eyes on her hands. When she finally looked up, his gaze was unwavering, taking in every bit of her; the soft part between her lips, the slight fidgeting of her hands, the open expression in her brown eyes. The vulnerability. It wasn't something he saw in her often and he would've easily missed it had his eyes not been fixated on her every move.

Her voice had been strong and assured, but her eyes told a slightly different story. Maybe she'd had the same fears that he had, of the one-sided feelings, but she'd taken a leap of faith, taking a flight down to see him and putting her life on hold in the process. She was brave; he'd always known that, but it was even clearer now.

He stood up and moved towards her, taking her hands and pulling her to her feet, "What're you-" she started asking in confusion, only to be silenced when he gently took her lips in his. She wrapped her arms around his neck and relaxed into him as his mind went blissfully blank, aside from the strong notion that he wanted to be better for her, and that he didn't want to be the one always needing help and support. She needed reassurances too, despite her tough front, and he'd do anything he could to provide that.

When they broke apart he rested his hands low on her back, his eyes meeting her, "I love you too, Sara."

XXXXX

Veronica stifled a yawn for the umpteenth time. She was sitting outside at a small café near her apartment, enjoying the warm sunshine on her back as she sat, hovering over her laptop. The coffee mug next to her was almost empty, much to her dismay. She was really in the mood to dive in and make some progress, and half a cup wasn't going to last her more than twenty minutes…maybe she'd have to order another.

The night before had been long and full of research. Well, more like setting herself up to research; figuring out her plan of attack and trying to discern where to even begin. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, but she wasn't even sure what the needle looked like.

She knew she needed something tangible to prove that Steadman was alive; that's what her current line of thinking was anyways. Despite that seemingly obvious path to pursue, her confidence was wavering; she was a good lawyer, but she was a real estate lawyer. This was criminal law; unfamiliar territory and a bigger playing field. It's not every day she worked on cases that involved the Vice President and her brother. Not to mention that she'd started working her regular hours again at the office, which meant all of her efforts to salvage Lincoln's chance at freedom were overtime, hence her unsuccessful attempts to stop yawning…and the almost empty mug.

Her mind drifted briefly to Michael, knowing that he was set to have surgery today; she planned on texting Sara later to make sure everything was going ok, but for now, her focus needed to be on Lincoln's case. It felt like the only thing she could do at this point to make a difference for either of them, so that's what she was going to do.

She looked down at the cursor on her screen, flashing rhythmically, waiting for her to commit to an idea and actually make a note of something.

The strange sense of déjà vu washed over her, taking her back to a similar situation when she was in college. She was at a coffee shop then too, laptop in front of her, with a fellow law student sitting across from her. He was charming and easy-going with sandy blonde curls; they'd gotten along well and often studied together. She was trying to figure out the best way to approach a hypothetical case presented to them by their professor, growing increasingly frustrated by the tangled mess of evidence, unreliable witnesses, and the most confusing timeline she'd ever seen.

She'd vocalized her frustration and he replied with a breezy smile, "Occam's razor."

"What?" she'd replied in a huff, wondering what nonsense just came out of his mouth.

He'd shrugged, "It's just the theory that the simplest solution to a problem is usually the right one."

She paused, letting the memory sink in. Could the simple, obvious answer actually be the right one? The only person she knew of who might be able to get them out of this was Aldo Burrows. He was the one who leaked information about the illegal dealings between Ecofield and The Company to the press.

The realization caused a pang of uncertainty, because to her, Aldo's involvement meant two things. First, that he was a Company agent who'd turned on them and ratted them out. He did the right thing…to a point. He'd exposed them, even though it put him at risk, and maybe he'd be willing to do it again.

But the second thing left her feeling much less optimistic. She couldn't ignore the fact that he'd remained in hiding, despite the fact that he had a son on death row. The Company tried to flush him out, to lure him into their crosshairs by setting his son up to be executed, and it didn't work. Aldo didn't come out of hiding to save Lincoln before they escaped…what made her think he would now? How could she even contact him? He'd stayed in the shadows for a long time already, and he was obviously good at it. If The Company couldn't track him down, she had very little hope that she could.

Her stomach grumbled, and she looked at the clock, it was almost eleven and she never had breakfast. The café was small and familiar, so she had no problem abandoning her table and notes for a brief moment to order herself a sandwich and sit back down. They assured her they'd bring it out to her when it was ready, so she plopped back down and let her mind wander back to when Lincoln had first been framed.

She regularly followed the news with about as much enthusiasm as any average citizen, but when Lincoln was arrested she watched it obsessively. When Steadman's murder and Lincoln's arrest exploded across every news station, there had been absolutely no mention of Ecofield or The Company. It had all been about the victims – Steadman and his grieving sister, and the murderer – Lincoln. It was easy to see now that there was a lot more to it than that.

It irritated her how much had been left out. This was a cover-up of a scandal that involved millions of dollars, but the only thing making the headlines was about how sad it was for the Vice President to lose her brother. They played the pity card, and it worked.

"Here you go," the waitress startled her, setting the sandwich down next to her.

"Thanks," she replied, picking it up and taking a huge bite, already feeling better now that she had some food.

If Aldo was the solution, that solution was the start of a lot of problems, the first and most obvious being: where the heck is he? She had a few fuzzy memories of meeing him a few times when they were all kids, but he was never around much. It made her wonder if he would remember her at all if she was somehow able to contact him. She felt stuck.

Her phone started vibrating on the table and she set her sandwich down, wiping her hands on her jeans before looking at who was calling. It was one of her current clients. She sighed and felt defeated, knowing that any real progress on Lincoln's freedom wasn't going to happen today after all.


	17. Chapter 17

A knock on the door took Sara and Michael's attention away from each other, for a moment, as Michael made his way to the door.

Sara followed close behind and heard a greeting from behind the door, "Mr. Scofield, my name is Doctor Miller, I'm here to discuss a few things with you."

He opened the door and was met with a middle-aged woman with shoulder length blonde hair and a kind face. She entered, shook his hand, and then met Sara's eyes.

"Hi, I'm Doctor Miller, I don't believe we've met either."

Sara stuck out her hand to shake the other woman's, "I'm Sara, it's nice to meet you."

"Likewise," she agreed as Michael led all of them to the chairs by the window. They all sat down and Dr. Miller got down to business, "so, we have a team of myself and three other doctors working on your case. I figured it would be less overwhelming to just meet with one of us this morning."

"I appreciate that," Michael agreed.

"So, I'll start with the basics," she continued, "we're set to start the surgery at two o'clock this afternoon, and the surgery will last into the evening. You'll be awake the whole time, so we can monitor your cognitive function, but you won't feel any pain. Afterwards, you'll be brought back here to rest," she looked at Sara, "will you be spending the night here?"

Sara looked at Michael with uncertainty, "I...uh," Michael gave a subtle nod, indicating that she was welcome to, "yes, of course I can. If that's ok?"

"Absolutely," Dr. Miller confirmed with a nod, "it would be great to have someone here, keeping an eye on him...and keeping him company," she winked at Michael, and Sara blushed, lowering her gaze.

"Ok, now it's your turn," she continued, "do you have any questions for me?"

Michael glanced over at Sara, looking like he wanted to ask something but didn't know what. She took the cue and cleared her throat, "I have a few if you don't mind."

"Not at all."

"What are you expecting in terms of success with getting all of the tumor? From what his previous doctors said, it's in a difficult location to access without risking damage to other parts of his brain."

She nodded, "Yes, from what we saw on his scans it would be difficult with the gamma knife, but were using a different technology here, one that isn't available to the public yet."

Sara narrowed her eyes, "something experimental?"

"Yes."

Sara appreciated Dr. Miller's directness, "Has it been done before?"

"Yes," she nodded, "several times, all with great success."

She processed this simple explanation for a moment, knowing that asking for more in-depth details about whatever method they were using wasn't going to help or change anything at this point, "Will there be any memory loss?"

"Well," she started, "of course there's always the risk, but with this procedure we haven't seen any loss in net memory."

"Meaning?" she prompted.

"We're all tapped into such a small part of everything we've learned and experienced. Even if there is memory loss, it won't affect his normal day to day function, or his ability to recall memories like anyone else. If there's loss, it'll be things he wasn't consciously aware of anyways. Basically, he'll never know it was gone, because he never knew it was there."

Sara nodded, finding her answer acceptable, "What about recovery time?"

"Assuming there aren't any complications, he'll be up and around in a few days, and back to his normal self after a week or two. It's hard to say exactly," she shrugged, "everyone's different."

Sara glanced over at Michael, who was leaning forward and listening with his hands folded near his lips. She reached over and put a hand on his knee, "Michael, is there anything you wanted to ask?"

She didn't mean to put him on the spot, but now that he'd had a chance to think, she wanted to make sure he had one last chance to ask anything.

He remained silent for a moment, "No, I think I'm ok."

Dr. Miller offered an easy smile, "We'll take good care of you, Michael. We've got some great doctors here."

"Thank you," he replied, meeting her gaze.

"You're very welcome," she started to get up, "well, I'll get out of your hair. They'll come get you just before two o'clock and we'll get started," she made her way to the door and turned to face them one last time with a smile, "it was nice meeting you both."

The door clicked behind her and Sara faced Michael, "Well," she started, "she seems nice. Smart, and not…you know, evil."

"Yea," he agreed, gazing out the window.

"What is it?" She questioned, seeing that he was a mile away, lost in thought.

"If I...if I die," he began, catching her off guard with his bluntness, "will you check in on Lincoln?"

"Michael-"

"Don't, please don't tell me it'll all be ok," he whispered, "we can't know how this will turn out. I just need to know that if something goes wrong...that he won't be alone in the world," he met her eyes and she saw grief. The pain in his eyes was that of a child who'd been let down too many times, who'd been abandoned and disappointed, the look of someone who knew the value of having someone they could actually depend on.

"Of course, Michael I'll make sure he's ok," she promised as she took his hand in hers, "but you don't need to worry about that right now. Save your strength for later, ok?"

He sighed, "Ok."

She nodded, then remembered something, "Oh, and if you'd rather have some space to recover that's fine, I can always stay in my hotel room. When Dr. Miller asked I wasn't sure what you wanted-"

"I want you here," he interrupted, and she smiled.

"Ok, well, then I suppose I should get back to my hotel now to grab my things and check out."

"I suppose you should," he said suggestively, and she laughed.

He glanced around the room, which would soon be his recovery room and admitted, "although I have to say…this isn't exactly how I pictured our first night together."

"Oh yea?" she questioned, curious that he'd thought about this before, "how'd you picture it?"

He smiled slyly, "Give me a couple weeks to recover and I'll show you."

A warm feeling spread through her body before she could gather her thoughts to reply, "Ah, that dinner you still owe me," she remembered, "I look forward to it."

She grabbed her purse and made her way to the door, and he followed, "Hurry back."

"I will," she promised from the doorway, "try not to worry too much while I'm gone."

"No guarantees," he said with a smirk and she rolled her eyes, shutting the door behind her.

She made her way out of the building, impressing herself that she actually remembered the route that the friendly secretary had described to her. It was a bit of a maze, but soon enough she was back outside in the courtyard, calling a cab. When it arrived, she got in and tossed her purse in the seat next to her, running a hand through her hair and gazing out the window at the sunshine and palm trees.

It was a little after ten, so she planned on packing up her belongings quickly, canceling the rest of her stay at the hotel and checking out, and heading back to be with Michael as soon as possible. The way Michael had been staring off into space after the doctor had left made her concerned. Anyone would be nervous before a big surgery like this one, and she didn't want him being alone.

"Thanks," she told the cab driver as she grabbed her bag and got out. She made her way up to her hotel room and started gathering her things. She was stuffing the last of her clothes into her bag when her phone started vibrating in her jeans pocket, immediately causing a feeling of panic; was it Michael? Was something wrong?

She pulled it out of her purse and saw Veronica's name.

Oh, thank God, she whispered under her breath.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Sara, it's Veronica."

"Hey, what's up?" she replied, still trying to recover from her mini panic.

"I just wanted to check in and see how he's doing. I was going to text but I figured…you know, it might be easier to talk, if you've got a minute."

"Yea, no, it's good to hear from you," she replied, meaning it, "he's uh, he's doing alright. We met with the doctor this morning and she seems friendly and…capable, so that's reassuring at least."

"Good, that's a relief," Veronica agreed, "how's he doing otherwise?"

"He seems…distracted? I don't know if that's the right word but it's like he's not fully here sometimes. When the doctor was talking with us he was listening but didn't ask any questions or really engage otherwise."

"Sounds like Michael," she replied with a small chuckle.

"So that's normal behavior?" she questioned, "I mean, I knew he was a bit closed off when I met him, but figured that was a self-protective thing because of dealing with the other inmates."

"No, that's just how he is," she replied and Sara could hear her smiling, "even when we were little if something was bothering him or if things weren't good in whatever home he was at, he would close off a bit. Well-" she tried to rephrase, "if you ask him direct questions he'll answer, I feel like he just gets lost in his own mind sometimes, but he's willing to talk, you just have to drag it out of him," she laughed.

"That's oddly comforting," she replied with a laugh, "thanks."

"No problem. How about you-hanging in there ok?"

"Yea, I'm doing alright," she sighed, "are you? Doing ok with…everything?"

Veronica sighed, "How long have you got?"

"That bad, huh?"

"I feel like I'm at a dead end with his case. I have a possible lead, if you can call it that, since I don't know how to contact the person who's help I need."

"Damn," she replied, wishing they could talk as freely as they had in her apartment, but knowing the possibility of their phones being bugged was still there, "maybe we can talk in person once I'm back? If you're still up for grabbing coffee sometime."

"I'd love to," she emphasized, "I need to talk it through with someone. Knowing my luck, I'll probably lay it all out there and you'll tell me the answer is obvious and right in front of me."

She laughed, "Let's hope for that, honestly. That way all of this would be over and done with."

"You're right," she chuckled, "alright, I better let you go. It was nice talking to you again."

"You too, I'll let you know when I'm back in town."

"Sounds good, bye!"

"Bye," she ended the call and looked around the room. She realized that she'd been packing absentmindedly while they talked and had everything packed up. She double checked one last time before leaving her room and heading down to check out.

XXXXX

"Are you ready, Mr. Scofield?"

Sara watched through a large, glass wall as the surgeon's hands hovered at the back of Michael's head.

"Yea," Michael whispered as his eyes closed, his head strapped down to be held still, and she heard the sound of the drill revving to life.

It was weird and incredibly frustrating to be on this side of the glass. The outside. She was a doctor, dammit, she should be allowed in there. Hell, she would help if they let her. She'd demote herself to be a surgeon's assistant, handing them things, if they'd let her. But nope, it wasn't an option, so here she was, standing and watching and waiting.

Michael's eyes remained closed, and she couldn't blame him. If she was in his position, she wouldn't be looking around either, she'd be closing her eyes and pretending she was somewhere else.

The surgeon asked him to start reciting the alphabet and he complied, slowly but surely, reciting one letter after the other. She watched him like a hawk, looking for any signs that something was wrong, and didn't find any. The machines around him all had happy, steady readings on them, so she turned her attention back to him, and waited.

XXXXX

Michael opened his eyes into slits and found himself back in his room. It was night time; the only lights coming from the appliances in the kitchen and the bright, almost full moon shining through the window.

Sara was asleep in one of the chairs, curled over with an elbow folded and resting over the back of the chair, with her head resting on her arm. A slow smile came across his face, watching the steady rise and fall of her breath, and the moonlight illuminating the one side of her face.

His head hurt, he realized, but it was different this time, and his mind felt foggy and tingly, like a pleasant buzz. He started to stir a bit, and slowly reached a hand up to feel his head. There was a bandage wrapped all around it, covering from his eyebrows up, leaving only a small circle at the top of his head exposed.

His stirring must have been louder than he thought, because Sara started to lift her head and stretch her arm out, only to realize that he was awake too, and clicked on the lamp on the table next to her. He could see her fully now, wearing gray sweatpants and a worn, blue t-shirt. He could feel his mind become easily distracted at seeing her in such soft clothing, his eyes lingered and his instinct was to wrap his arms around her and snuggle in, and he couldn't seem to get his thoughts back on track. He felt drunk.

She got up and made her way over to him.

"Hey," she greeted sleepily, leaning over him and meeting his eyes, "how're you feeling?"

Her concern was evident, and made him smile. He spoke slowly, not wanting any words to slip out that he didn't intend, "Ok, I think."

She smiled back, putting a hand over his, "Do you need anything?"

He swallowed and realized how dry his mouth was, "Uh, maybe some water?" he never liked asking for help, not even for something so simple, but he was in no shape to get up and get it himself. Given his current mental state, he wouldn't be surprised if he fell over trying.

"Yea, I'll go get you some," she replied and turned to make her way to the sink, filling a glass, and bringing it over. She set it on the table next to him and did something to his bed that made it slowly sit him more upright.

"I guess it pays having a doctor around all the time."

She chuckled and handed him the glass, which he started gulping greedily.

"Whoa, easy tiger," she put a hand on his arm, lowering the glass from his face, "the last thing we need is you throwing up."

He smiled, "Fine," he said defeatedly, while trying not to laugh. Everything was funnier than it normally was, which probably wasn't good. He was trying to be a good patient for his generous, live-in doctor. She took the glass and set it on the table next to him.

"Oh!" he suddenly realized, and his words rushed out in an almost-slur, "I have to call Lincoln I have to tell him it went ok and I need to make sure he's –"

"-he knows, Michael," she interrupted, sitting sideways on the edge of his bed and running a hand through her hair, "he called last night after you got out of surgery. I told him everything was fine, and he's ok too. He said it made it to somewhere in Texas for the night, and should cross the border tomorrow."

"Oh," he relaxed dramatically back into the bed, "ok, good," then having another question, "wait, how long have I been asleep?"

She glanced at the clock on the microwave, "Well, it's about midnight," she explained patiently and slowly, "and your surgery ended around seven last night. You were pretty worn out, understandably, and they gave you some meds for the pain. Right after we got back here you fell asleep."

"Mmm. Good meds," he mumbled, and she chuckled.

He searched his mind, trying to remember the events she'd just laid before him, "but I don't remember that," he admitted.

Her eyes showed a bit of concern, but her words said otherwise, "Like I said, you were exhausted and heavily medicated," she paused, "what's the last thing you do remember?"

He searched his mind through the fog, "I remember going in for the surgery. I remember when they strapped my head into place and when the drills started," his brows furrowed, "did I have to say the alphabet?"

She smiled, "Yes you did. And you nailed it by the way."

He laughed, "I'll add that to my resume."

Still smiling, "How about before that? Do you remember yesterday morning?"

He thought back again to the morning before, his lonely anxiousness in the morning, then seeing her standing at the door, the conversations they had, the kiss… "Yea I remember."

She looked expectant, waiting for him to elaborate, "You remember what, exactly?"

He wrapped his fingers through hers and gave a dopey grin, "You."

That earned him another smile as she lifted their joined hands and gave his a kiss, "Since you're obviously feeling pretty damn good," she chuckled, "why don't you try to get some rest," she ordered and started to get up.

"Hey," he stopped her gently, keeping her hand in his, "there's room up here you know," he patted the space next to him with his free hand.

She smiled and rolled her eyes, then put on a dramatic thinking face, "I feel like I've heard that line before."

He smiled back, "I'm hoping this time it works."

"Are you sure? I mean, there's not really room," she gestured to the bed intended for one person.

"I'll scoot!" he started inching his way to the left and she rushed over, putting the guard rail up on the bed, shaking her head.

"Oh, for God's sake Michael, are you trying to fall off?" she asked with an eye roll and a smirk.

He realized how close he really was to the edge of the bed, and found his delayed reaction amusing, but hid that revelation, "Just making room, that's all," he replied innocently.

She failed to hide her smile as she walked around to the right side and sat down on the somewhat available space, and swung her feet up.

"See, it's perfect," he decided, moving his right arm behind her so when she went to lay back, her head rested in the crook of his arm.

She settled in next to him, and turned onto her side so she was facing him. Her head rested on his chest, and her arm draped over him comfortably. After a moment, he could feel his eyelids grow heavy again as she snuggled deeper into his side and she sighed, "Ok, you're right. It is."

XXXXX

Lincoln woke up with a feeling of dread. Today was the day he was set to cross the border into Mexico, and it was stirring up some anxious feelings. He'd crossed borders before, but this time was different.

It wasn't the fake I.D. he was worried about so much; he was more concerned with being recognized. He knew his face had to be plastered all over and there was no hiding it this time. He couldn't just throw on sunglasses and a hat and lower his gaze. He'd have to look whatever agent he was in front of dead in the eyes.

He sat up in bed and sighed, running a hand over his head, feeling the stubble that was growing longer every day. His eyes lazily roamed over the hotel room he was in, which was about as exciting as any of the others he'd been in recently, and decided it was time to head out. He preferred the "rip-the-band-aid-off" approach to most things in life, and this was no different. The sooner he was on his way and across the border, the better.

Six mind-numbing hours later, he was almost to the border, and his stomach was in knots.

Just chill OUT, he commanded himself, knowing that nerves led to errors, or at the very least, suspicions. He needed to be level-headed and calm, not flighty and jittery.

There were only a few cars in front of him, so he dug out his fake passport and said a silent prayer, taking deep breaths in and out. His windows were rolled down and the sweat was starting to bead on his forehead, a light sheen forming on his arms as well.

It was his turn and he pulled up, slowly, and handed his passport to the agent.

The man took it and looked at him with an unamused and slightly annoyed face, "Where you headed to?"

"Mexico," he replied.

"Where at in Mexico?" the man asked with a scowl.

"Not sure yet."

The agent flipped through the pages of the passport. Lincoln realized he was holding his breath and forced a steady inhale.

"How long is your trip?"

Why do they ask so many questions? Lincoln wondered, growing more annoyed, "Not sure yet."

"What do you know?" the agent asked pointedly.

"Look, man," he spat back, growing angry, "I'm just taking a vacation, I'm not sure when I'll be back or where I'm going."

The agent glared at him again, pausing, trying to make him uncomfortable. It was working.

He did a few more things on his computer, and then turned to him, "Sir, I'm going to need you to pull off to the side."

His stomach dropped, "Why?"

"I'm just going to need you to pull over to the right, an officer will meet you."

He did as he was told, his heart and mind both racing, and parked the car in the small lot outside of the building nearby. As promised, a uniformed officer met him right as he got out of the car.

"What's this about?" Lincoln asked as calmly as he could.

"You need to come with me," he replied.

"Why?" he asked again.

"Because you're Lincoln Burrows."

The agent's words might as well have taken the ground out from beneath his feet. He couldn't find it in him to even reply, let alone try to deny it. His heart was racing, his knees weak, but he remained standing and faced the agent with as much dignity as he could muster.

"The F.B.I will be here shortly to talk to you," the agent continued as he cuffed Lincoln without any further conversation, and started walking them both towards the building. He didn't resist. He knew that struggling now would do more harm than good.

He'd expected this; deep down it felt like he'd always known it was going to happen, and the dread he'd felt upon waking that morning hit him again with full force.

The officer escorted him into the building and found what looked like an interrogation room to hold him in. Lincoln sat down in one of the chairs, facing a lone chair across from him.

"The F.B.I will be here in about forty minutes," the officer told him again, "until then, you'll wait here."

"Ok," he managed.

The room was already making him uncomfortable. It was bright...too bright, with white walls and searing fluorescent bulbs above him, and it was small, with barely enough room for the table he was seated at.

What the hell was he supposed to do now? His fake passport wouldn't help considering they knew what he looked like, and Michael wouldn't know of his situation. Neither would Veronica...or Sara. Everyone who could possibly help him wouldn't know, and he didn't even want to venture a guess as to when he might be allowed a phone call.

The forty minutes turned out to be more like an hour, a painfully slow hour full of his mind torturing himself with how this might turn out. Would he be sentenced to death again? Returned to Fox River? Or a different prison? What if Veronica had been working to find evidence, maybe he still had a shot at being freed legally? He dismissed that idea before it fully formed in his mind, the last thing he needed now was false hope.

The door opening startled him into the present, where he was now face to face with the agent he'd seen at the cemetery; the one from the T.V. who'd promised they'd be caught.

"Lincoln," the agent greeted, taking the seat across from him, "Alex Mahone, F.B.I."

The agent smiled slyly at Lincoln, a gleam in his eyes, looking thrilled, "How good it is to finally meet you."

Lincoln's expression didn't change, "Wish I could say the same."

"That was some escape your brother planned I gotta tell ya," he started with a small laugh, "the level of planning and sophistication involved I'm...I'm impressed."

Lincoln read him as being sincere on that declaration, but couldn't bring himself to care. He didn't want this guy's respect, he wanted his freedom.

"But planning can only get you so far," he continued excitedly, "and now that I have you here, I'm going to need you to help me with something."

Lincoln didn't reply.

Mahone folded his hands on the table, "I need you to tell me where your brother is."

Lincoln scoffed and shook his head.

"Let me spell this out for you," the agent continued, leaning forward, "right now you're looking at being sent to Fox River, right back on death row where you started. I'm giving you an option, your only option to avoid that, which is to tell me where Michael is. If you do that, you'll have a reduced sentence and avoid the death penalty, how does that sound?"

"I can't do that."

Mahone lifted his chin slightly, "And why not?"

Lincoln thought for a moment. He really couldn't; if Mahone wanted Michael, he wasn't going to get him. He was protected by The Company, and even if he wasn't, there's no way he'd rat him out, which made this whole conversation pointless as far as Lincoln was concerned.

Mahone continued, "You'd risk your life to protect him?"

Lincoln shrugged, "He did the same for me, I'm just returning the favor."

"No," Mahone snapped back, growing agitated, "what you're doing is signing your death warrant, and probably his. How long do you think it'll be before we catch him, huh? And when we do, do you really think he's going to go back just to serve a few more years in prison? No, he'll be getting a hell of a lot worse than that, unless you convince him to turn himself in. That's what's happening."

Lincoln suppressed another scoff. Mahone had no idea where Michael was, and the deal he made. Michael was a free man.

"You're wrong," he replied simply.

Mahone leaned back in his chair and sighed, "You have until the end of the day to decide. Either way, you're going back to Fox River. Today," he met Lincoln's eyes, "the question is, whether or not you'll ever come back out."

Lincoln didn't reply as Mahone stood up and walked out the door, slamming it with unnecessary force behind him. It wasn't long before another agent came in, informing him that they were shipping him back to Fox River, right then. He was taken to a prisoner transport van and as soon as he got in, a wave of memories washed over him. The old feelings of confinement crept back into his consciousness, stripping away his feelings of humanity and freedom...and leaving him wondering once again, if he'd ever get them back.


	18. Chapter 18

Dr. Miller was in, checking on Michael. It was the morning of his second full day of recovering, and Sara could tell that The Company doctors were impressed and thrilled with how well he was doing.

He didn't like to complain, but Sara had insisted that he be honest with her about what he was feeling, and he'd admitted a few times that his head still hurt, but that the pain was different than before. He jokingly said, "You know, it's a "my skull was drilled into" kind of pain, not an "I have a tumor" kind of pain" to which she'd rolled her eyes and laughed, as if most people understood what either of those things felt like.

She was leaning against the door now, playing with the string of her white sweatshirt, and watching. Michael was seated upright in the bed, still in his hospital gown, with Dr. Miller at the foot of it, talking with him and administering various cognitive tests. Sara watched his face carefully, noticing a small wince here and there, a line between his eyebrows appearing at times, or a somewhat vacant look in his eyes while he searched for an answer, but nevertheless, he was making progress.

Most of the time he stayed in bed and she took care of making sure he had something to eat, but keeping his mind occupied was the most challenging part. The first day he'd slept a lot, but ever since they'd tapered down the dose of the stronger pain medications, she could tell he was antsy.

She smiled at the memories. He was quite…uninhibited by whatever drug was in his system and she'd of course messed with him a little. Nothing crazy, just some playful teasing and finally catching a glimpse of his true sense of humor.

He seemed to be making and retaining new memories just fine, but she wondered how much of the previous day he'd remember…and she honestly hoped it wasn't a lot; that way she could surprise him years down the road by tossing out something he'd told her yesterday and he wouldn't have a clue how she knew it.

Whoa, she realized, years down the road. The notion had popped into her mind like it was nothing; like it was the obvious, expected progression of events. Subconsciously, she'd been hoping for "years down the road" for a while now, but hadn't allowed herself to explore that possibility until now.

She glanced over and saw Michael with his bandaged head obediently following Dr. Miller's orders, executing some sort of memory test using flash cards, and her heart softened; he was a good man. She'd instinctively known that from the beginning, but every day she spent with him provided even more confirmation.

"Alright, Michael that's it for now," Dr. Miller told him, "you're doing great," she smiled at him.

"Thank you," he replied with a small smile, seeming to actually enjoy the cognitive tests.

Dr. Miller made her way to the door and Sara stepped out of her way, thanking her.

"My pleasure, and he's really doing great," she told Sara again before leaning in closer, speaking more quietly, "but I get the feeling that something is bothering him. He doesn't seem the type to open up to a stranger," Sara scoffed in confirmation, "so maybe you ask him about it. If he'll open up to anyone, I'm guessing it's you."

She winked at Sara and left, clicking the door behind her, leaving Sara concerned and confused. She glanced up and saw Michael looking at her, and he smiled when she met his eyes.

"Everything ok?" he asked.

"Yea, uh…" she walked over to his bed, ran a hand through her hair, and sat down on the edge, "is it? I mean, are you doing ok with everything? I know there's a lot going on right now…"

He didn't reply right away, but she could see his mind churning behind his eyes.

"Michael," she sighed, softening her tone and speaking slowly, "I understand that you couldn't tell me all of your secrets before but…you can now. We're here, you're safe…you can tell me if something is bothering you."

"I don't really know where to start," he admitted.

"Try," she prompted.

He said nothing.

"Ok," she rephrased, "what's the smallest thing?" figuring that getting the easiest thing out of the way would at least get him talking.

"Well," he started, "the smallest thing is…I don't like not knowing what my job will be here," he looked down, "I still don't know anything except the fact that I'll start as soon as the doctors here tell me I'm ready."

She considered this, "Do you think they'd be willing to give you some more details now? You could ask," she hesitated, "you could ask Christina, if you wanted to."

He paused, "True."

She shrugged, "It wouldn't hurt. I know she's not your favorite person, but a phone call is easy enough."

"Yea, I'll think about it," he agreed.

"What else?" she asked.

He took in a big breath and sighed, looking up and out the window, "I don't want to ask."

"Michael, look at me," he did as instructed, "just tell me."

He reached out a hand to place it over hers, "What's going to happen in four more days?"

She narrowed her eyes, "What do you mean?"

"You said you took a week off work to be here. Today is the third day so…what's going to happen in four days?"

Any frustration she had at his reluctance to express himself fizzled away, "Well," she considered what she suspected he was really asking, "I could always ask for more time off if needed, but if you're asking about us…I want to make it work, whatever that means."

He smiled and looked relieved.

"Wait," she started, joking, but somewhat offended by his obvious relief, "what did you think I was gonna do?"

"I don't know!" he exclaimed with a smile before growing more serious, "I really don't know. But I can't move back to Chicago, and that's where your life is, so…I really didn't know what to expect."

She sighed, "We'll figure it out, and you don't need to worry about that right now. You're stuck with me, and I can always come visit while you get settled in here."

He smiled again, "Ok."

"What else?"

"Lincoln."

She nodded in understanding.

"But," he continued with a smirk, "there's nothing new about that."

She squeezed his hand, "I'm sure he'll be in touch again soon."

He nodded.

She went into a daze, staring into space and thinking back through his list of worries, trying to figure out what she could do to fix any of them, "Thank you for telling me."

"Thanks for listening," he replied quietly, also seeming lost in thought.

She came back to reality after a moment, "Do you think you're ready to call Christina?"

"I don't know," he admitted, "I don't know how to act or…feel around her. It's weird."

Certainly understandable, she thought with empathy, "Do you want me to call? I mean…I might have a different perspective, she didn't leave me when I was a kid."

He met her gaze, "You uh, you would?"

"Yea, I'd be happy to."

"Ok just…" he suddenly seemed nervous, "just know that the apple fell very far from the tree. Might not have even been the same forest."

She smiled, "Believe me, I know how that goes."

He understood, "I suppose you do."

She patted his knee before standing up and going over to the desk, grabbing the landline phone and calling reception.

"Wait," Michael called out, "you're calling her now?!"

She shrugged dismissively, "Yea, why not," she ignored his wide-eyed stare and waited.

The receptionist answered, "How may I help you?"

"Hi, my name's Sara, I'm with the patient here Michael Scofield, I was hoping to speak with Christina Scofield?"

"Of course, let me see if she's available, can you hold?"

"Sure," she agreed.

After a moment she returned, "I have Christina for you."

"Thank you," she replied, trying to ignore the weird feeling in the pit of her stomach. She'd never met or spoke with Christina, but based on what she knew of the woman-

"-Sara, to what do I owe this pleasure?" she greeted in a voice that was syrupy sweet- too sweet. Fake.

"Hello Christina," she replied, "just a simple question."

"Fire away."

"Michael wants more information regarding what he'll be working on."

"Ahh," she replied, understanding, "tell him he'll be working on the Bargain theory. If he doesn't know what that is, perhaps we shouldn't be hiring him in the first place."

"Uh, ok," she made a mental note of it, "thank you."

"Not at all, and thank you Sara. I know how much it means to him having you there."

You don't know anything about him, she thought, but decided to keep it cordial, "I'm happy to be here. Thanks again, Christina."

She hung up and turned to look over at Michael, whose eyes were burning a hole in her back.

"So?" he asked, looking nervous.

Sara walked over to him again and stood at the foot of his bed, crossing her arms, "She said you'd be working on the Bargain theory, that mean anything to you?"

Understanding registered in his eyes, "Yes."

"What is it?"

He took a deep breath, "There's a theory that if you combine certain elements: Boron, Argon, Gallium, Indium, and Magnesium…that you can harness 100% of the suns energy."

"Like a solar panel?" she asked, sitting down on the bed again.

"Right, but better than anything currently on the market."

"I thought The Company was made up of evil supervillains, not eco-friendly engineers."

He smiled, "So did I," he thought for a moment, "of course, something like that would be worth millions. Whoever owned the patent would be-"

"Rich."

He nodded, "And that's putting it lightly."

They were both silent for a moment until she asked, "Are you ok with that?"

"With what exactly?"

She shrugged, "Working here, being a part of that project."

"I think I have to be at this point."

She nodded, "I know it's not ideal…but it could be worse, right? They could have you making nuclear weapons or something."

"True."

"Wait," she paused, "you know how to make nuclear weapons?"

He grinned, "No, but I could figure it out."

She chuckled and shook her head, "That's reassuring."

She started to get up and asked, "On that note, what do you want to do today?"

"Well I-" he looked confused, "I can't really get out of bed to go anywhere."

"I know, but do you want to watch movies? Play cards? Come on, Michael I know you're bored out of your mind. You can't sit here and stare at the wall all day."

"You're a card player?" he questioned slowly.

"I know a game or two," she replied with an eyebrow raise.

He thought a moment and then shook his head, "You don't want to play cards with me."

"Why not?"

He gave a devious smirk.

"Oh, you think I can't beat you?" she guessed, and his smirk said it all, "think again mister. I'm gonna go buy a deck."

He shrugged innocently, "Don't say I didn't warn you."

She smiled and grabbed her purse, heading out the door.

XXXXX

Familiarity and comfort usually go hand in hand, but that wasn't the case for Lincoln as the van approached Fox River. It had been almost a full twenty-four hours of driving, and he was beginning to recognize the scenery as they got closer to the prison.

The drive had been dull, yet full of anxiety, and it didn't help that Mahone felt the need to ride with them for the last stretch. Apparently, he'd flown into Chicago the night before, and wanted to be in the van when they went through the gates; it was some sort of euphoric experience for him based on the look on his face, the reward of getting to witness the results of a job well done. To Lincoln, it was pathetic. Another man finding joy in sending another man back to death row; an innocent man.

A fire ignited in the pit of his stomach, again, finding the unfairness of it all almost too much to bear. He didn't kill Steadman, hell- no one had. He balled his hands into fists, knowing that it didn't matter, the truth didn't matter.

The van turned a corner and the guard towers came into view. His stomach sank.

Mahone turned to him, "One last chance," he said calmly, "where's Michael?"

Lincoln looked him dead in the eyes, "Somewhere you'll never get to him."

Mahone's eyes gleamed with a strange mix of both victory and defeat, "We'll see," the van pulled through the gate, crunching the gravel beneath, "we'll see."

Media crews were everywhere, Lincoln realized. They were practically climbing onto the van they were so close, waving microphones and cameras their way. Lincoln put his head down and kept it there, finding temporary comfort behind the tinted windows.

He didn't expect any questions directed at him, but if there were any, he was committed to remain silent. He could practically hear Veronica begging him to keep his mouth shut, and the memory almost made him smile- under other circumstances, it would have. When he was first arrested, she'd drilled that command into him, "Whatever you do, don't say anything."

Solid advice.

The van parked, and media persons swarmed even tighter around them. Several officers ordered them to back up, allowing room for Bellick to open the door and grab Lincoln's arm, dragging him out of the vehicle and on the familiar route to the entrance. His legs protested the sudden movement after almost a full day sitting down, but he stretched them reluctantly as he walked.

As expected, the microphones and cameras followed, and he ignored them, putting one foot in front of the other. Luckily, they managed to snag Mahone, as he stopped to address the press. He didn't seem to mind; Lincoln glanced back and heard snippets of his speech- the success of law enforcement…bringing a con to justice. Lincoln stifled an eye roll.

Warden Pope met him at the entrance, squinting slightly into the bright sunlight, "Lincoln Burrows," he said with sneer.

He nodded, "Warden."

"You and I have got a lot to talk about."

With that promise, the doors shut, leaving the mass of reporters behind them. Lincoln looked around, taking in the familiar surroundings; the smells, the sounds…

"Come with me," Pope continued, leading Lincoln, who was still in Bellick's tight grip, to his office. He hadn't been in the Warden's office much before, but it was still familiar; the large wooden desk, the faint scent of cigar smoke, and the impending sense of doom just from being there.

Pope sat behind his desk and Lincoln took the chair opposite, shrugging some tension from his shoulders and trying to ignore the discomfort of sitting down again. Bellick looked at Pope, and he answered the implied question, "You can let him go, he won't be causing trouble today, will you Burrows?"

"No," Lincoln agreed, and Bellick let go of his arm, moving over to stand by the door.

Pope folded his hands in front of him, leaning forward, and began, "I've been preparing for this moment since the day you escaped, and I've gotta tell you, now that it's here, I don't know where to even begin."

Lincoln waited.

"I'll start by stating the obvious; you'll be spending your time here in solitary, until the day of your execution, which hasn't been set yet. But what I'm more concerned with, is you telling me everything you can about where Michael is, and how he pulled off the escape. Every. Detail."

Lincoln scoffed.

He narrowed his eyes, "Something funny?"

"I'm not telling you where Michael is, and I'm not the one to ask about the escape. He's the brains."

"Well, that much is obvious."

Lincoln ignored the insult.

"You're telling me that you knew nothing about the mechanics of the escape, and I don't believe you. You're going to tell me, or I can make things a whole lot worse for you in here, you know that."

"With all due respect, I don't think things can get worse for me than they already are."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

"I am," he replied simply, "I have nothing to lose."

His mind flashed to Veronica, to Michael…that wasn't true, but he'd lost them already, lost them the moment he was caught. Having the Warden take away yard time or extra food wasn't going to make a difference now, not with what little time he had left.

"You and I both know that's not true," Pope replied, "how about you take some time and think it over. You'll have plenty of that. Bellick- take him to his cell."

"Yes sir," he replied, moving to grab Lincoln by the arm again.

They left the Warden's office and now that it was just the two of them, Bellick started right off with the jeering, "Just like old times, huh Burrows?"

"Sure," he replied flatly.

They walked the familiar route in silence, until they approached his cell.

"Bet you wish you had some of them Scofield brains right about now, figure out a way to get yourself outta this mess."

He didn't reply.

"I'm gonna let you in on a little something," Bellick leaned closer as he opened the cell door, "there's no way out of it this time."

XXXXX

Veronica had had a day. She dramatically dropped her bag off her shoulder, the irritating bag whose straps dug into her shoulders, but she kept it anyways -it was actually able to hold everything she needed, and set it onto the dining table. The case she was working on currently was a drama fest if there ever was one; a messy divorce and splitting of assets including not one, but two homes, which is why she was involved.

She slipped her heels off, almost crying in relief as her bare feet met the cool tile floor. It was relatively early still, almost five, but she'd been in court all day and was exhausted. And starving.

She went to the fridge and didn't find anything that piqued her interest, so she opened the freezer instead and found a frozen pizza. Her stomach growled as she pulled it out and started pre-heating the oven.

Grabbing a wine bottle, she poured herself a well-deserved glass and flopped down onto the couch, flipping on the T.V. and propping her feet up on the coffee table. It was five o'clock on the dot now, so she decided to watch the news.

The first story was about an earthquake in California. She watched it with detached interest, letting her mind wander and filter through everything that had happened over the course of her day. Bitter arguments from the soon-to-be-divorced couple and her endless attempts to negotiate rattled around her mind.

The oven beeped; she set her glass down and got up, putting the pizza in the oven.

A woman reporter's voice kept her attention, "I'm here at Fox River where convicted murderer Lincoln Burrows is back in police custody."

Veronica whipped around at his name, dashing back over to the T.V., her eyes fixed on it.

"He was captured trying to cross the border into Mexico, and has been brought back here to the Fox River State Penitentiary, the same prison he and seven other men escaped from just a few weeks ago."

"Oh my God," she breathed out, almost not believing what she was seeing, but there he was. The camera panned to show Lincoln, cuffed and in Bellick's firm grasp, being led through a sea of reporters, and to the front doors of Fox River.

"According to F.B.I officials, Burrows is going to face the death penalty as he was originally sentenced, the date of which is yet to be determined."

"Oh my God," she repeated, plopping down on the couch to gather her thoughts. The news carried on to a different story, but she just gazed out the window in a daze. She had to visit him, and had to figure out how much time he had left.

The thought of visiting him caused a mix of emotions. She wanted to see him; it had been far too long, and the time apart had been filled with so much uncertainty. Every day she only hoped that he was alive, but now she had a chance to see him again. It was selfish and she knew it, being oddly happy that he was back in town…under such terrible circumstances.

And the question of how much time he had left was a worry she didn't even know how to start addressing. Aldo was still the only viable option she could think of…and, she realized with guilt, she'd been so busy with her current job, she hadn't taken the time to look into a way of contacting him. That would have to change now.

Did Michael know? No, she figured he didn't. If he did, Sara would too, and she can't imagine that they wouldn't have called her. She sighed, realizing they were probably too pre-occupied with Michael's recovery to bother with the news. She'd have to be the one to tell them.

The timer went off and she glanced towards it, her appetite gone. She got up anyways and pulled the pizza out, knowing she had to eat something, or her energy would be zapped the next day. She knew she wouldn't be able to sleep anyways, and planned on starting the research on Aldo that night, accepting the fact that for whatever time Lincoln had left, she'd be burning the candle at both ends.

XXXXX

Michael looked up and searched Sara's face, her cards fanned out in her hands. She tilted her head to one side and then the other, and bit her lower lip before making her play.

He stared at her more intensely, trying to read her face. She met his eyes and smirked, "What?"

"I call," he replied, sliding his pile of M&M's to the middle of the coffee table, "show 'em."

She laid her cards down.

"No way!" he exclaimed, seeing the royal flush in front of her.

"Yes way," she replied with a smug smile, sliding the M&M's in front of her.

"You cheated."

"I did not!" she shot back indignantly.

"Ok, fine," he agreed with a smile, "best two outta three?"

She shrugged, "Your funeral."

He grabbed the cards and started shuffling, losing himself in the satisfying sound.

"How're you feeling?" she asked.

"Well, my pride is taking a beating."

She laughed, "Oops. But really, how's your head?"

"It's ok, getting better I think. And my strength is coming back a little."

She nodded, "Yea, you seemed pretty tired for a while there, understandably."

"Yea, and this helps," he gestured to the cards and M&M poker chips in front of them, "thank you."

She raised an eyebrow, "For taking my first vacation in over a year and playing cards? You're quite welcome," she replied, popping an M&M in her mouth.

He smiled, "Well, then thank you for spending your long overdue vacation with a mentally handicapped poker player."

She slapped his arm playfully, "You are not mentally handicapped."

"Apparently I am," he said with certainty, dealing them both a hand, "they must have cut out the poker-playing part of my brain by mistake."

"Uh-huh, sure. Keep telling yourself that," she grabbed the cards in front of her and started organizing her hand, grabbing another M&M and eating it.

"We're gonna run out of poker chips if you keep doing that," he said with a smirk.

"Hey," she said defensively, "first of all, I bought a massive bag. I could eat thousands of dollars' worth of fake poker chips and we'd still have plenty. And second," she sighed, glancing at the clock, "you're right," he smiled, "it's almost 5:30 and I need dinner soon."

"Are you going out again, or?" he asked apprehensively. She'd gone out to get food the night before, leaving him alone with his thoughts, and he'd rather that not be repeated.

Her expression softened, "I don't have to. I went out last night because I didn't want to be eating amazing food in front of you while you're stuck with Jello and Saltines."

He smiled at that, "Dr. Miller said this morning I could try eating more normally now-what were you thinking for tonight? What sounds good?"

She paused for a moment and drew a card, "Maybe Chinese?"

"Sounds good to me…if I could have some?" he asked apprehensively. She was still a doctor after all and one who didn't like her patients bending the rules; whatever he was going to have, it needed her approval.

She nodded, "Rice is a good place to start, maybe some soup…just nothing spicy."

"I can live with that," he agreed, growing more excited to get back to regular food.

"Ok, I'll order it after this hand."

"After you lose this hand," he corrected, and she shot him a glare.

"We'll see," she was interrupted by her phone ringing, "hang on, lemme get that."

She got up and grabbed her phone, wandering over to the window for a sense of privacy, "Hello?"

Silence for a moment, "He was? Oh my God, is he-"

Michael lifted his eyes from the cards and stared at her now, her tone alarming him.

"Yea," she sighed, "yea, if there's anything we can do…I will. Ok, thanks for letting us know. Bye."

She hung up and came back over, sitting down across from him.

"What happened?" he asked, fearing the worst.

She met his eyes, all the playful bantering from earlier gone, "That was Veronica. Lincoln was caught, trying to cross the border into Mexico."

His stomach sank, "He was?"

She nodded, "He was. He's uh," she hesitated, lowering her head, "he's back at Fox River."

Her words sank into him like a knife. All the planning, the sacrifices, the lives lost, the people he'd hurt…it was for nothing. Saving Lincoln and getting him his freedom was the point of everything, and he'd failed.

He didn't even want to ask, but had to know, "What's his sentence?"

She looked grim, "Veronica said that, according to the news she saw…he's facing execution again or…still, the date of which is to be determined."

He sank even lower, leaning forward in his chair and resting his head in his hands, muffled, "Any idea how long he has?"

"No," she replied simply, getting up to squat beside him, placing a hand on his back, "they didn't say, but Veronica said she'll go to Fox River tomorrow to get all the details she can."

His chest constricted, his whole body growing heavy with pain and worry. This was somehow worse than when Lincoln was first taken into custody. Back then it was easier because Michael hadn't been convinced of Lincoln's innocence. He'd been upset and terrified of what would happen to him, but slightly bitter, wondering if Lincoln had truly done something wrong that got him into that mess.

Now, things were different; he was certain that Lincoln was a pawn in a chess game that was fixed from the start, and they had so much invested in figuring out how to both have their freedom. But here he was, stuck working for people he'd rather not work for, and Lincoln was back to square one.

"Hey, come on," she lifted his head gently with her hand under his chin, forcing him to look her in the eyes, "we'll figure this out."

He sighed defeatedly, "That's what we said before, and look how it turned out."

"There's always a chance, Michael. Veronica said she had a possible lead and she-"

"-She does?" he perked up slightly, "what is it?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted, "she just said that she'd tell me once I'm back in Chicago. She didn't want to tell me over the phone in case-"

"-in case it was bugged."

"Right."

He thought for a moment. They needed more information. If Sara could talk to Veronica in person, somewhere safe, they might be able to follow whatever lead she had. If Sara was back working at Fox River, she could keep an eye on Lincoln…talk to him, make sure he's ok.

"You should go back sooner," he declared after a moment.

She looked hurt for a brief moment and then understood, shaking her head, "Michael, no there's nothing I can-"

"-You can talk to Veronica in person. And Lincoln. You can call me when you find out more, I can get us both burner phones, we can-"

"-Michael," she interrupted, "I think we should let this settle for a minute. We need to think things through and talk it over…preferably over dinner."

He sighed, remembering their simple dinner plans that felt so far away, "Right."

"We just," she paused, "we need to figure out our next move here."

He rested his chin on his fists, "You're right."

She got up and planted a kiss on top of his head, "I'll order some food."


	19. Chapter 19

"I'm here to see Lincoln Burrows," Veronica addressed the officer behind the front desk at Fox River.

He looked confused, "What for?"

"I'm his lawyer," she replied simply, "I need to talk to him."

"He's not allowed visitors."

"I'm not a visitor, I'm his lawyer. He has the right to see me."

He looked her up and down, taking in her pant suit and briefcase and sighed. He pressed the button on the walkie on his shoulder, "Mack?"

A response came, "Yea?"

"Bring Burrows to the visitation room."

"Copy that."

The officer addressed Veronica with fake sincerity, "Right this way."

"Thanks," she replied with equal sarcasm.

She knew the way to visitation by heart, but allowed the guard to escort her there, gesturing towards a table in the corner. She took her seat and placed her bag on the ground next to her, waiting anxiously for Lincoln to be brought in.

She wasn't sure where to start once he arrived. It had been a while since they'd seen each other, and when they had, she was under the impression that he was about to be executed. Feelings had been at an all time high, mixing together and confusing her. Mostly she'd felt grief. Even though he'd still been there in front of her, the last time she visited him, it was like she was already mourning the loss of him.

The escape had given her hope. A lot of worry and sleepless nights too, but hope that they had a chance to have some sort of future...as friends, or maybe more than that, but a future of any sort was a heck of a lot better than nothing at all.

Seeing him on the news, handcuffed being led right back here had crushed her; and now being back here herself, with the harsh cement floors and walls, the oppressiveness of just being in the building...it was putting a real damper on everything.

What was she supposed to say to him? Sorry things didn't work out? I feel like a failure for not being able to help you before? How could you be so stupid? She usually took the "how could you be so stupid" route when she was angry, but that's not what she was feeling today. She couldn't blame him for trying...the system had failed him.

The door opened and she heard the jingling of chains. She raised her head and saw him; he was in the familiar navy blue pants and white shirt, his hands and feet bound, and being escorted over to her. Instinctively, she stood up, and the moment he was within her reach, wrapped her arms around him.

"No contact," a guard barked out and she shot him a glare, slowly releasing Lincoln.

"Hey," he greeted with what almost looked like a smile.

"Hey," she replied as they sat down, trying to hide her happiness at having him back within arms reach.

He took a moment before admitting, "I'm surprised to see you."

She tilted her head, "You are?"

He shrugged, "Wasn't sure how you really felt about the whole thing."

She sighed, but decided he deserved to know the truth, "I can't say I'm happy with the choices you both made...but I understand. And you're alive; whatever you had to do to make that happen," she met his eyes, "I'm glad you did."

He looked relieved, and nodded, "So what now?"

"Now, I try to get you out of this. Again."

"How?"

"First things first; have they set a date yet for the execution?" She had to know what kind of timeline they had to work with.

He shook his head, "Not that they've told me, but it'd have to be at least a few weeks, right? There's a lot of paperwork involved."

She nodded, "Right, that's what I was thinking too. Unless-"

"-Unless what?"

She sighed, "They could try to expedite it."

He met her eyes before asking slowly, "Why?"

"Well," she didn't know how to put it nicely, "your escape pissed a lot of people off. You embarrassed the authorities who were looking for you, since it took so long to find you."

He smiled and lowered his gaze, "At least it wasn't a total waste."

She couldn't help but grin and roll her eyes, letting a brief silence fall between them.

"Look," she started again, "I have an idea, but I wanted to run it by you."

"What is it?"

"Far as I can tell, there's only one person who can help."

He waited.

"Your father."

He couldn't hide his surprise, and replied slowly, "My father? Isn't it his fault I'm in this mess in the first place?"

"Well, yes, but that's kind of the point. They wanted to flush him out...if I'm somehow able to do that, he can testify on your behalf and explain what really happened."

He slowly shook his head, "Ain't gonna happen. If he hasn't come forward yet, what makes you think he will now?"

"I'm going to ask him," she said simply.

He wasn't convinced, "You know how to contact him?"

"No," she admitted, "but I may have contacted a reporter, asking to go on the news tonight. I can reiterate your innocence, and ask the one person who is behind all this to come forward. He'll know we're referring to him, and it puts the ball in his court. Officially. He'd be able to find my phone number with a simple Google search."

He sighed, "That's a real stretch, V."

"I know," she agreed, "but I don't have anything else to work with here," she waited a moment, "are you ok with that?"

He shrugged, "Guess it can't hurt anything at this point."

She nodded, "Ok then, it's settled. I'll go on air tonight."

He looked down at his hands and she could feel that he was losing hope.

"Hey," she started, and he glanced up, "don't give up on me. Not again."

He nodded slowly, "I won't."

A slow smile crept onto her face, "It's good seeing you again."

He smiled a little, "You too."

She got up and grabbed her bag, "I'll see you soon."

He nodded as the guard came and grabbed his arm, escorting him away from her.

She exited the room and signed out on the visitor log, making her way out of the building and back to her car. It was still morning, so she decided to head to the office for a bit, finish up some paperwork, and more importantly, prepare her speech for the news that evening. It had to be convincing, sincere, and impactful enough to make a man in hiding sacrifice himself for his son. She sighed as she turned the engine on. She had work to do.

XXXXX

"And yet you still dated him, this Trevor guy," Michael sighed, shaking his head dramatically.

"I couldn't help it!," Sara defended herself, "it was basically an arranged marriage...but in dating form...when I was in high school."

He smiled, still shaking his head, "To be the daughter of a politician."

"It's something else, let me tell ya."

"You couldn't get out of it?"

"I really couldn't. He was the son of some other important politician."

"You don't even know who?"

She shrugged, "I had very little interest in the company my father kept. In case that wasn't obvious."

He chuckled, "So, how bad was it?"

"Horrible."

"Go on," he asked, obviously interested now.

They were sitting on his bed; Michael propped up and Sara sitting cross-legged on the foot of the bed, facing him. They'd somehow got on the topic of worst first dates, and it was her turn.

"Ok, so my father set it up, which is strike one as far as I'm concerned. He planned it-I mean, who lets the father of their girlfriend-to-be plan the date?"

"Yea, that's pretty bad," he agreed with a hint of a smile.

"So I get all dressed up, because this is a fancy thing, right? Like, a really nice restaurant because that's what normal high schoolers do," she rolled her eyes, "and when I go downstairs to meet him at the door, he's on the phone."

"Texting?" he asked.

"No, talking. On the phone. To another girl."

"No way."

"Yup, by name and everything. Someone named Nicole. He was on our front porch, chatting with another girl about their plans for the next night."

"In front of you!?"

"Well, he didn't see me at that point. He was waiting at the door and I eavesdropped."

"That part doesn't surprise me."

She leaned forward to playfully punch his arm.

The landline started ringing and they looked at each other with confusion.

"I got it," Sara said as she got up. Michael was up and around a lot more, but still spent a fair bit of the day resting. She didn't want him moving around more than he had to.

"Hello?"

"Sara," a familiar voice greeted, "it's nice to speak with you again."

"Hi Christina," she replied, "what can I do for you?"

"Well, I was hoping to stop by today to discuss a few things with Michael. You're welcome to be there too, of course."

She narrowed her eyes, "what kind of things?"

"I have the official paperwork here for his pardon. He just needs to sign a few dotted lines and he'll have a clean slate."

"Ok," she agreed, still not quite believing it was that easy, "uh, when did you want to stop by?"

"Well, I've got a few hours to spare before my next meeting, if it's not too short of notice?"

Sara glanced over at Michael, sitting on the bed, gazing out the window.

"No, now is fine," she replied. It's not like they were doing something more important than assuring his freedom.

"That's wonderful, I'll be there in ten minutes or so."

"Ok, we'll see you then."

She hung up, walked over to Michael, and sat on the side of the bed.

"Who was it?" he asked, looking up at her.

"It was Christina, she's on her way over now with the paperwork to pardon you."

He looked surprised, "that was fast. I figured they were gonna wait until I was working."

She shrugged, "I guess not. Maybe the whole thing with Lincoln made them decide to speed up the process."

He nodded, "True…" he trailed off, looking out the window again.

"What?" She asked.

He sighed, "Just not looking forward to seeing her again I guess."

She nodded in understanding, "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'll be here. Maybe she'll be on her best behavior with someone else in the room."

He scoffed sadly, "I wouldn't bet on it...but, it does make me feel better having you here," he grabbed her hand, "thank you."

She squeezed it, "You don't have to keep thanking me."

"I know," he smiled.

"Why don't we get you seated over there," she gestured to the coffee table and chairs, "since there'll be business to take care of."

"Sounds good," he replied as he started to get up.

"Slow," she reminded him and he obeyed, letting her grab his arm, supporting him if needed. He probably didn't need it, but she couldn't help herself.

As soon as they got him comfortably in the chair, there was a knock at the door, and Sara went over to get it.

She opened it, "Christina, hi."

The woman before her stared intensely at her with a smug smile. At least now she knew where Michael got it from-the ability to stare a person into extreme vulnerability.

"Sara, so lovely to meet you," she replied, her eyes still not leaving Sara's face, analyzing every inch of her.

"Come on in," she gestured and stood back, allowing her to enter.

Christina glided over to the coffee table and sat down opposite from Michael, setting a folder down between them.

"Christina," he greeted cooly, and Sara could feel his mood shift instantly. She took a seat between them, and watched.

"Seems like you're recovering well," she observed with a smile.

"I am, thank you," he said flatly, "Now tell me about the pardon, what exactly does it guarantee?"

She nodded, "I have here the paperwork to pardon you. It'll erase any criminal record you have-"

"-and they won't be looking for me anymore?" he interrupted.

"That's correct; you'll be taken off the F.B.I's most wanted list. If someone happened to recognize you and report anything, they'd find nothing-no warrant for your arrest or anything of the sort. You'll be free, Michael. Like none of this ever happened."

He sighed, "and as far as the terms regarding my employment?"

She smiled her smug grin, "With the progress you're making, the doctors think you'll be ready to start next week."

"How long am I bound to work for you?"

"You're assigned to the Bargain theory, so your assignment ends when you figure it out, to the satisfaction of the General."

"Wait," he leaned forward, "you're telling me, that I'm expected to figure something out that researchers have been trying to solve for-"

"-you and a team of other researchers," she interjected.

"Like that makes a difference," he shot back, "this is potentially a life-long assignment. People dedicate their lives to things like this."

"Yes," she answered simply, "but we have hopes that you'll solve it faster than that. The earth isn't getting any less polluted, Michael."

Sara saw the claws coming out, her tone sharpen; this must be the side to her that Michael was always referring to.

"This is," he leaned back, "this isn't what I agreed to."

"You agreed to work for us in exchange for your life. This is exactly what you agreed to," she shot back.

He paused, obviously gathering his thoughts, "If I agree to this, how do I know you'll hold up your end of the deal? How do I know that if we figure it out, that you won't just assign me to another team, and then another, and another-"

"-You don't," she replied, "but so far we've held up our end, haven't we? You got the surgery, you're alive and well, and the paperwork to pardon you is right here," she taped the folder in front of them.

"Sorry, if I may," Sara interrupted, still processing everything that had been said. They both turned their attention to her as she asked, "who's the General?"

Christina's eyes left Michael's and softened slightly, "General Krantz, he's the head of The Company."

"Like the C.E.O?" She questioned.

"Something like that," she replied slyly, causing a notion of confusion.

Something like that, she pondered the meaning of her words.

"Michael," Christina continued, "this is the deal. You sign a few dotted lines and get your life back. You get to work on one of the most exciting, groundbreaking environmental engineering projects of our time, and you do so with a team of highly qualified colleagues. Otherwise, you're going right back to Fox River," she paused, "just like Lincoln."

Michael shot a glare at her and Sara bit her tongue. This lady really was a piece of work, using the impending death of one son to torment another. She suppressed a shiver.

Sara shook it off and put a hand on Michael's knee, knowing that this was the lesser of two evils. He met her eyes and she gave a small nod. He sighed and agreed.

"Excellent," Christina declared as she opened the folder and pulled out a pen, "You just need to sign here and here," she indicated on the pages in front of them.

"Nice try, but I'd actually like to read them first," Michael replied coyly.

She leaned back, "Very well, be my guest."

Michael took the files and began looking them over, leaving Sara and Christina in a very uncomfortable silence. Well, it was uncomfortable for Sara anyways. She alternated between looking down at her hands and glancing up at Michael, trying to gauge his reaction to what he was reading.

"So, Sara," Christina began.

Here we go, she thought, bracing herself.

"What is it that you do?"

She cleared her throat, "Uh, I'm a doctor," she replied, deciding to forgo the part that she'd been his doctor.

"Ah," she looked impressed. Sara tried not to be flattered, "what kind of Doctor?"

"Well, I practiced in family medicine for a while but I'm currently doing...Emergency medicine."

It wasn't exactly a lie. Prison injuries usually were an emergency.

"So you work well under pressure I assume?" She asked, seeming genuinely interested.

"I suppose," she agreed, "I don't like to be bored at work."

Christina nodded, "Well, if you're ever interested, I could certainly put in a good word for you around here; we're always looking for bright, capable minds to join us," she met Sara's eyes intensely, and Sara suppressed a laugh. As if she'd ever willingly work for these people.

"Thank you I'll...I'll keep that in mind," she replied, trying to keep it professional yet non-committal.

Sara had to admit that she was confused by this whole operation. Engineers, Doctors, Generals...was the General in the military before this? Michael and Veronica had both mentioned that The Company included government officials and people with considerable weapons skills...it was an odd mixture of people, all housed under one roof.

They were powerful, that much was obvious, but what was their end game? She was inclined to not like them, but she was grateful for them helping Michael, and apparently keeping their word. At least so far.

Michael looked up from his reading, "Alright," he agreed and grabbed the pen, signing in both places Christina had indicated.

"Excellent," Christina said as she grabbed the papers from his hands, "I'll get these to the right people today, and by this evening you'll be a free man."

They both nodded.

Christina got up to leave and made it to the door, "I almost forgot- the doctors think you're ready to be on your own. If you'd like, we can arrange the hotel nearby for you starting tomorrow night?"

Michael looked at Sara and she shrugged in agreement, there's really no need for him to have doctors nearby at a moment's notice anymore; he was healing just fine.

"Sounds good," he agreed.

"I'll let them know," she replied, and clicked the door shut behind her.

XXXXX

"I'm here with Veronica Donovan, the attorney for Lincoln Burrows, who was recently captured trying to cross the border after he escaped from Fox River. Tell us why you're here Veronica."

Veronica suppressed the queasy feeling in her stomach, taking a deep breath as the woman holding the microphone asked her the question, "I'm here to represent Lincoln Burrows, and to reiterate again that he is innocent of murdering Terrence Steadman, and to request that he get a new trial."

The reporter nodded, "From what I understand, there's a lot of evidence proving his guilt."

"The evidence was forged," she replied, gaining confidence, "in an attempt to cover up a larger scandal involving Steadman and a group whose interests were affected by his company, Ecofield."

"What group?" The interviewer pressed.

"I can't speak to that today," she redirected the conversation, "my job is to prove that Lincoln is innocent, and to do that I need the help of one man. This man was the reason that Lincoln was chosen to take the fall. He knows who he is, and I'm asking him to come forward; to work with me, and to prove that Lincoln is innocent."

"Sounds like you're asking someone to give up their freedom to save Lincoln's?"

"Yes I am," she looked directly into the camera, praying that Aldo was watching.

"Well, there you have it," the reporter continued, "thank you for being here with us, Veronica."

"My pleasure."

XXXXX

"Did you hear that!?" Michael asked, turning his attention away from the television and back to Sara.

"Sure did," she replied, as the camera panned away from Veronica and switched to another reporter, "she's talking about your dad, right?"

"Yea, must be," he confirmed.

"Any chance he'll come forward?"

He thought about it for a moment. He had very few memories of Aldo; nothing horrible or remarkable, he just remembered that he was gone a lot, "I don't know. I mean, he didn't come forward before…"

She shrugged, "Maybe he will now."

He was glad they'd decided to turn the T.V on; it had sat quiet since he first spent the night there, but he'd gotten an inkling to turn it out. Apparently, his instinct was correct, and he was grateful; at least now he knew for sure that Veronica was still trying to help Lincoln.

He thought for a moment and a coincidence occurred to him, "Why is it that both of our dads are able to fix this whole thing, but neither wants to?"

She scoffed, "Isn't that the million dollar question."

"Guess that's something we have in common."

"Yea, I guess so," she paused before meeting his eyes and speaking genuinely, "I'm really sorry I couldn't convince him to help."

"No, Sara," he got up and grabbed one of her hands, "I didn't mean that."

"No I know," she shrugged, "but that doesn't make it suck any less...I wish they were people we could depend on."

He nodded, understanding that pain all too well, "Me too."

She moved towards him and wrapped her arms around his waist. He sighed and rested his cheek against her hair.

"So tomorrow," she started.

"Yea?"

"They're moving you to a hotel room?"

"Yup, I guess so."

She looked up at him, "Think there's room there for one more?"

He couldn't help it and smiled, "Yea, I guess I won't leave you stranded out on the streets."

She rolled her eyes, "Such a gentleman."

He smiled and pressed his lips to hers. He'd feel much safer having her there. His head was feeling fine, but the thought of being alone and...unmonitored made him a little uneasy.

After a moment, "So does that mean I'm better than Trevor?" he asked with a smirk.

She chuckled, "That depends; am I better than Nicole?" she asked, wrinkling her nose in exaggerated disdain.

He laughed and kissed the top of her head, "So much."

XXXXX

Lincoln sat on the floor of his cell in solitary, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. It was a different cell than he'd had before, and the differences were oddly disturbing. The marks on the wall, the cracks in the cement on the floor, the beam of light coming in from the small window...it was all "off" somehow.

He wanted to laugh at himself; the irony of missing his old cell, but he couldn't. Not much could generate an actual laugh or a smile now.

Veronica had come close though.

Seeing her again and knowing she was on his side was pretty much all he had to cling to. He realized how much he admired her for her hope; it couldn't be easy on her either. She had a job and life outside of trying to dig him out of his problems. The fact that she was still around and still trying...it meant a lot.

He knew Michael would try to help too, with Sara by his side, but he couldn't know for sure. Michael was safe as far as he knew; he had a good thing going for himself, and Lincoln didn't want to ruin that.

He didn't know how long Sara planned on staying with Michael, but he was selfishly hoping she'd be back to Fox River soon. Injuring himself enough to warrant a visit with her wouldn't be so bad, and it would be worth it-finding out that Michael is doing well, and asking her to keep tabs on Veronica's progress. There had to be a way for him to visit Sara enough to stay in the loop...or hope that Veronica would visit him often enough...

He took a slow, deep breath, trying to stop his mind from swirling around in maddening circles. But there was nothing to fill the time.

Instead of worrying himself with the present, he allowed himself to reminisce, and his mind went to his father.

He'd told Michael years ago in all seriousness, that the thing he remembered most about Aldo was the back of his head. He was never a "present" father; never saw their baseball games, wasn't around to teach them all the things that dad's were supposed to do. Was there really any chance he'd come forward now to save him?

He stared through the darkness of his cell and traced the lines on the wall with his eyes, getting familiar with his new surroundings. He realized that something besides the cracks and markings of his old cell was missing; the paranoia. From the day they escaped Fox River there was always the sense that someone was right on their heels, ready to catch them at any moment. It was something he didn't know if he'd ever be able to shake, but now that he was back in prison, he almost felt like he could let his guard down. Without cell mates or interactions with the other prisoners he was relatively...safe. Aside from the impending execution, of course.

"Hey Linc?" The guard outside his cell asked.

"Yea?"

"Someone's here to talk to you."

He raised his head slowly, "Who?"

"Mahone."

He scoffed quietly, "Nope, not a chance."

The guard sighed, "I wasn't giving you an option," he replied, opening the cell, causing Lincoln to squint in the bright light.

Lincoln got up slowly, reluctantly.

"You won't cause any trouble, right?"

"Nope," he replied simply, knowing that way he would be just in handcuffs and not chains too.

The guard cuffed him and escorted him to a visitation room, where Mahone was waiting already. Lincoln took the seat opposite and leaned back, getting comfortable.

Mahone looked agitated already...fidgety. Lincoln observed him closely and saw the sweat beading at his hairline, his hands twitching, a slight flush in his face-

"Lincoln, I don't want to make this difficult," he began, his fingers tapping the table between them, "so I'm going to ask you again, where is Michael?"

"I don't know."

"You don't-" he smashed his fist on the table, "no, you do know something, you wanna know how I know? Because this morning, when I went to look again at Michael's file, you know what I found? Nothing."

Lincoln met his gaze now, realizing what that meant. The Company was holding up their end of the bargain.

"And considering how certain you were that we wouldn't find him," Mahone continued, "I think you know something, and you're gonna tell me."

Lincoln smirked, "Why the hell would I do that?"

He leaned forward, "Because I can make things a whole lot worse for you if you don't."

He scoffed, "Worse than solitary and then death? I don't think so."

"Really?" He yelled, "You really think hurting you is the only play I have here? Because I can think of a certain lawyer, Veronica is it?" He asked coyly, "She's awfully bold isn't she? Going on the news like that to beg some mystery man for your salvation," he jabbed a finger at Lincoln's chest.

His eyes pierced Lincoln's.

"You say her name one more time-" Lincoln growled.

"-And you'll what?" He challenged, "what're you gonna do?"

"You're F.B.I," Lincoln yelled, "you can't threaten innocent people to get to me."

"No one is innocent. If we wanna find dirt on Miss Donovan we'll find it, believe me," he sighed, "Tell me where Michael is."

He gritted his teeth, "No."

"Alright," he started to get up, "have it your way."

Have it my way? Lincoln thought sarcastically. As if that ever happens.

Mahone left the room and the guard came to escort him back to his cell. He had to warn Veronica, but how? He said a silent prayer that she would come back to visit him. Soon.


	20. Chapter 20

"Got everything?" Michael asked Sara, looking around the room one last time before they left, destined for the hotel a few blocks away.

"Yup, I think so," she confirmed, tugging on the strap of her bag on her shoulder, "you really didn't bring anything else?"

"I could say the same to you," he smirked. Her bag was no bigger than his backpack, after all.

She rolled her eyes and smiled, shrugging, "I like to pack light."

"Me too," he replied, nodding again to the backpack at his feet, "alright then, let's go," he slung the bag over his shoulder and they walked out of the room.

She entered the hallway with Michael not far behind, clicking the door securely shut behind them. He hadn't been out of the room at all since he'd entered it days before, but remembered the layout well enough to find his way to the elevator.

"How far is the hotel?" Sara questioned.

"Uh," he looked at the address he'd scribbled on a piece of paper, "I think it's just a few blocks east of here."

She nodded, "Wanna walk there?"

"Sure," he smiled, eager to get outside and move around. The last thing he wanted to do was sit in a car.

They got onto the elevator and he pressed the button for the ground floor. His eyes went to Sara, who was digging into her purse and flipped her phone open, engrossed in reading.

"Everything ok?" he asked.

"What? Oh, yea, it's just Veronica, wanting to know how you're doing."

"Oh," he replied, touched that she was reaching out to check on him, "tell her I'm recovering well and will be working for corrupt, greedy bastards in a matter of days."

She slapped him but couldn't stifle a laugh, "I'll tell her you're doing great."

"Hmm. That's pretty aggressive paraphrasing, but ok," he smiled.

The elevator dinged and they stepped out and headed past reception and to the main entrance. His pace slowed.

The last time he was in that lobby felt like a lifetime ago; fresh off the road after spending hours in a car with Linc, Christina approaching him as he sat by the water feature on the wall…it all felt so far away.

Sara moved into his line of vision and put a hand on his arm, "You ok?"

He blinked himself back to the present, "Yea, I'm ok."

"What're you thinking?"

"I was thinking," he sighed, "that a lot has changed over the past week."

She nodded, "He'll be ok, Michael. Veronica is working on it."

"But if our father doesn't come forward, then that's it. Game over. All of this for nothing."

She paused, "You're right."

He met her eyes, shocked that she'd agreed.

"You're right that I can't guarantee that everything will be ok in the end. Maybe your father won't come forward, and maybe the death penalty will be carried out. But you had more time with Lincoln than anyone thought was possible," she paused, "and he knows you'd do anything for him."

"It's not enough."

"It's more than enough," she replied, exasperated, "you went to prison for the man, you lost toes, your job…you faked diabetes for God's sake."

He couldn't help but smile a little at that last point.

"You've gone so far, and done so much to help him."

He considered her words, "I guess that's why I'm frustrated. I've gone so far and it's still not enough to save him."

"And I understand that. We'll do everything we can to get him out of this but Michael, you can't blame yourself. None of this is your fault."

He knew she was right. It wasn't his fault. It was The Company's fault…and he now works for them.

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You ok?" she asked, looking worried again.

"Yea, sorry," he lowered his hand, "habit."

She nodded, "Let's get outside, some fresh air might do you good."

He agreed, and they exited the lobby, stepping into the fresh morning air coupled with a clear blue sky. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting out a slow exhale and opening them once more, glancing over at Sara, who was looking towards the coffee cart.

She looked back towards him and he raised an eyebrow, "You want to get something before we head over?"

She smiled, "I mean, I wouldn't mind a coffee for the walk over."

He laughed, "Say no more," and they got in line.

"So," he started as they took their place behind a tall man wearing an expensive suit, "when is it that you're flying out?"

"Uh, the day after tomorrow."

His heart sank. He knew she was leaving soon, but the reality of her leaving in a few days was still disappointing.

He simply nodded in response.

"Unless you need me to stay longer?" she offered quickly as they shuffled forward in line.

He shook his head, "I can't ask you to do that. I'm healing fine and feeling pretty good. But…I am going to miss you."

She smiled shyly, "I'll miss you too. But we'll be in touch, it's not like I'm going away forever."

"You better not be."

She laughed, "No, no chance of that."

The barista called them forward, "What can I get started for you?"

Michael's mind wandered as she placed her order. Should they figure out when they'll see each other next? The thought of her flying away without knowing when he'd see her again was unsettling. Should he visit her in Chicago? He didn't know what The Company's policy was on vacation time…but asking her to come back after just taking time off might be difficult too. It's not like Fox River had another doctor on staff…

"Michael?"

"Huh?" he replied, snapping out of his daze.

"Did you want anything?" she asked, obviously repeating herself.

"Uh," he hadn't even thought about getting something himself, "no, that's ok."

"Ok," she shrugged and paid, and they made their way to the other end of the cart to wait.

"So," she started slowly, "do you want to, uh, figure things out before I leave?"

He skipped a beat, "Things?"

She looked down and shifted her weight side to side, "When we might see each other again?"

"As soon as possible," he replied with a smirk, relieved that she was wondering the same thing.

"I mean…I agree," she laughed, "but I hate the thought of leaving here and not knowing when or where I'll see you again."

He nodded, amused by the uncanny similarity of their thinking, "Then we should figure it out. Today."

"Order for Sara?" a different worker called out.

"Right here, thanks!" she grabbed the drink, "ok, which way is it to the hotel?"

"Uh," he looked around, "since the sun is rising over there and the hotel is east of here…I guess that way."

"Sounds good, let's go. And Michael-"

"Yea?"

She nodded, "We definitely should figure it out. Today."

XXXXX

Veronica was in her office, having just come back from court. It had gone about as well as expected, but she was already feeling drained and it was only ten o'clock.

She set her bag down next to her desk with a huff, and plopped down in her chair, leaning back. Closing her eyes and letting out a sigh, she became aware of just how tense her neck and upper back was. She shrugged her shoulders up and down and bent her neck side to side, trying to loosen up all the knots that had appeared since she woke up.

A dull vibrating noise came from inside her bag. She reached down and pulled out her phone.

"Hello?"

An automated voice replied, "This is a call from Fox River penitentiary, do you accept the charges?"

"Yes," her heart started beating faster. Did he have an update? Was the execution date set?

"Hello?" she repeated.

"Hey V," Lincoln greeted, not sounding very happy.

"Hey, what's going on?" she was worried already.

"Listen, I gotta warn you about something."

She perked up in her chair, confused, "Warn me?"

"Yea. This guy…Mahone, from the F.B.I came by yesterday wanting to talk to me. He tried to get me to tell him where Michael is and when I didn't…he threatened you."

"Me? Why?"

"I guess your T.V. appearance has them worried."

"What was the threat? I mean…what did he say?" she wanted details.

"Nothing specific. And look I don't think he's after you now…but he's definitely willing to go there if he can't get Michael another way."

"Geez, Lincoln," she sighed.

"I know," he sounded defeated, "I'm sorry you got dragged into this."

She paused, "To be fair, I dragged myself into it."

"Still," he replied and she knew what he was getting at. The whole, "If it wasn't for me getting myself imprisoned you wouldn't be in danger right now."

But she couldn't care less about that.

"Ok, I'll watch my back. I'll be extra cautious, I promise."

"This guy is crazy, V."

"I hear you, and I'll be careful."

He paused, "Ok."

She couldn't help but wonder, "Is there any news about your case?"

"No, nothing yet."

"Alright," she sighed, "you doing ok?"

"I'm alright, but listen," he brushed it off quickly, "how's Michael? You heard from them?"

"Yea, I talked to Sara earlier, and she said he's doing great."

"Good, that's...that's really good."

She heard a faint, "Wrap it up," in the background.

"Look, I gotta go. But be careful, ok?"

"I will, I promise. We'll be in touch."

XXXXX

Aldo buried his face in his hands, letting out a massive sigh, and looked up again through slitted eyes. He was in another shitty motel, hours away from anywhere that mattered. It was his preferred place to stay. Well, preferred was a generous term, but he felt safe in places like this.

He was somewhere in Arizona, the dry heat maintaining a generous lead over the air conditioner chugging along in the window. The motel had a pool, but an unappealing green sludge of a film clung to the edges. He'd noticed it when he checked in, disappointed but not surprised. Maybe a shower would make him feel better, but he couldn't bring himself to leave his seated position on the edge of the bed.

He took off his baseball cap and tossed it aside, wiping the sweat on his brow. This isn't how it was supposed to turn out.

He'd left his family to protect them, and he realized what an ass that made him. By the time he realized how dangerous The Company was, it was too late.

He'd tried to rectify it; that's why he'd exposed the whole scandal with Ecofield- to expose The Company, and to make them a pariah, but it had only backfired. Sure, they'd winced as a result of his leak to the press, but they'd done some fancy foot-work, impressively quickly, and somehow managed to land on their feet.

Now it was all weighing on Lincoln; they'd gone after his family, knowing that any self-respecting father would come out of hiding to save their son. But he didn't. Why was that?

Self preservation was a strong motivator, but it wasn't that. He wasn't afraid to die. He was afraid of the pain of dying, but who wasn't? Something about it felt so much bigger than all of this; it wasn't the Aldo and Lincoln show, there were so many other players on the field, and so many moving pieces.

When Lincoln had first been framed, he'd suspected it was a set up, but he couldn't be sure. He knew that Lincoln had trouble with the law, but secretly hoped that he wasn't stupid enough to get caught on camera. Everyone knew that most parking garages had security cameras, which meant to go there in the first place, Lincoln must have been desperate.

But whatever had happened, Lincoln ended up on death row, and he'd failed to come forward.

Now he had another chance.

The crappy T.V. in front of him had been haunting him since the day before. Veronica Donovan; the shy, sweet girl that had come by from time to time when the boys were little...she'd certainly grown up fierce. He respected her; coming forward like that on public television to ask him to risk his life certainly took guts. He only hoped she wouldn't end up in the cross hairs of The Company because of her boldness.

And now he had a choice to make. He had another chance to save his son...potentially both of his sons, since Michael was still out there too.

It was time for some soul searching.

He stood up and grabbed his wallet, leaving the hotel and locking the door.

The oppressive heat hit him like a wall as the sun beat down on him, walking quickly down the block to a liquor store down the road. He tried to find humor in the irony; both of his sons thought he was an alcoholic. He wasn't. Sure, he enjoyed a nice drink every now and then, but it wasn't an addiction. He hated that they thought he was a useless drunk who abandoned them, but he'd learned to live with that. He may have even over-corrected, being extra careful to never cross the line with adult beverages to the point of waking up with a hangover.

Tonight though, he needed something to take the edge off, and to allow his mind to wander more freely.

The bell dinged as he opened the door, and a young man greeted him from behind to counter with a simple hello.

He wandered through the store, unable to commit to any particular drink. What does a man drink when he's decided whether or not to sacrifice himself?

"Anything I can help you find?" the young man asked as he approached him.

"Ah," Aldo struggled for words, unable to interact with someone normally with his current state of mind, "you know what, I'm not really sure what I'm looking for. Any recommendations?"

The young man perked up, "We've got a special on some local whiskey right over here, it's excellent," he gestured to a display.

Aldo picked up the bottle, examined it for nothing in particular, and nodded in approval, "Sold."

The clerk smiled and led him to the register.

He paid and thanked him before making his way back through the heat to the motel.

It was too quiet in the room, so he flipped on the T.V. again, finding an old western movie and figuring that would go well with the whiskey he'd just bought. He grabbed the ice bucket and left his room again, finding the ice machine a short walk away and filling the bucket.

He felt like someone walking to their death as he headed back to his room, and realized that must have been what Lincoln had felt like. The only difference was, Aldo surrendering his life was his choice, and Lincoln didn't have that. He sighed as he clicked the door open, already feeling himself swaying towards one decision, and feeling the fear stirring in his stomach as a result.

There were two glasses flipped upside down next to where the ice bucket had been, and he grabbed one, plunking three ice cubes into it and cracking open the bottle of whiskey. He poured himself a generous amount and settled into a chair in the corner, taking a sip.

If he came forward, two good things would happen. His sons would go free, and he wouldn't have to live this life anymore. He wasn't depressed or anything, but he had to admit that his current life wasn't exactly what he wanted. He was always on the run and in hiding. He'd never been able to secure a new I.D. for himself and was therefore unable to really start a new life away from The Company.

But if he came forward...what would that even mean? He took another sip, enjoying the warm feeling starting to calm his frayed nerves.

He'd have to stand trial, right? Admit to being the one who leaked the information to the press about Ecofield, and try to persuade a jury that Lincoln had been targeted because of it. Would they even be able to prove that? If he came forward, did that guarantee Lincoln and Michael would go free?

Maybe he needed more.

His eyes wandered to the T.V., where several men were engaged in a heated conversation in a bar, their hands both resting on the pistols on their hip. His mind drifted for a moment, lulled by the alcohol in his system.

He still had connections to The Company. He'd kept one ear on the ground ever since he'd "left" and knew far more about their current operations than anyone could expect. Blackmail could be useful.

If admitting to leaking the information and proclaiming that Lincoln was framed to flush him out wasn't enough, he could threaten to release more information that they'd rather keep secret.

Laos. Scylla…

That could work.

He sighed, knowing that his willingness to shrink away, to flee, and to bury to truth again and forever was dwindling by the minute. He wasn't getting any younger, but his sons could still have a life...a future. If he did the right thing now.

He took another sip and pulled up the internet on his phone, going to Google, and typing the name "Veronica Donovan."


	21. Chapter 21

"Ok, I'm trying not to be impressed, but…" Sara gushed, taking in everything about the hotel room they'd just entered.

"I guess it's alright," Michael replied sarcastically.

The room was bright and sleek. A king bed took center stage, but the suite around it was enormous. It had a fireplace and large T.V., a nice table with two chairs, and a large sliding door that gave way to a balcony. She looked through the glass at the ocean meeting the horizon behind it, shades of blue blending together.

"So," Michael started, "what should we do today?"

"Oh, uh," Sara slung her bag off her shoulder and walked over towards him, jokingly, "well, you were in prison. Then on the run. And then recovering from surgery so…I think you've earned the right to pick."

He smiled, amused, "Can we go to a museum?"

Warily, "A science museum?"

"Naturally."

Relieved, she smiled, pleased with their science-loving compatibility, "Sounds good to me."

He nodded.

"But also," she continued more seriously, "I'd like to figure out when we can see each other again."

He inched closer, wrapping his hands around her waist, "I'd like that too."

"So...what're you thinking?" she was up for just about anything, but needed to know where he was at.

"Well, I wish I knew more about my...uh, responsibilities towards The Company. I mean, I have no idea if they allow vacations or...anything like that," his voice faded.

She nodded, "Right, and I understand that."

"But I know you took time off to be here and I'm grateful you did," then guiltily, "I can't ask you to always take time off...they need you there."

She was needed at Fox River, and that made her happy. It gave her satisfaction; knowing that she took a job that was anything but glamorous. It was often stressful and though she'd never admit it to her father, it was dangerous...something that few people were willing to take on. She wasn't expendable. They needed her, and she liked that feeling, but it was times like this where it wasn't exactly ideal. Katie could hold down the fort for a while, but she knew it would be a lot for her nurse to bear if she started taking vacations to Miami on a regular basis.

"What about a long weekend?" she proposed, and he tilted his head, questioning, "like if I left work early on a Friday, got here Friday night and we had the weekend together. I could leave Sunday night and make it back to work Monday morning."

He thought for a moment, "You'd get into Chicago so late, I don't want you to burn out."

That earned a laugh, "Oh, trust me if I haven't burned myself out by now, a red-eye flight won't be the last straw."

He smirked, "You know, I've been curious for a while now," she waited, "do you ever spend the night at Fox River? It seems like you're always there."

She raised her arms and rested them on his shoulders, her hands clasping behind his neck, "Uh…"

"You have," he smirked, taking her avoidance as an admission.

"Only once," she defended herself, "on accident."

"On accident?" he asked with a smile.

"I fell asleep at my desk. When I woke up it was like 3am and I figured," she shrugged, "what's the point in going home then."

He shook his head, "Why were you there so late?"

"Uh," she thought back to that night, "We'd just gotten a new batch of inmates so I was going over files, then there was a-" she paused to remember, "I think it was a stab wound, then I went back to looking over files while the stabbing victim rested a bit and then after he went back to his cell I just...I fell asleep."

He smiled softly and kissed her, "See that's why I don't want to take you away from your job. They need you."

Not backing down, "I think they could handle me leaving early on a Friday every now and then."

He nodded reluctantly, "Ok, but I don't want you to ever feel like you have to."

She met his eyes, "I want to see you. I don't want to just fly home tomorrow and never come back. We can make this work."

He nodded, "And I promise as soon as I figure things out with work I can hopefully come to see you, too."

"I know you will," she unwound her arms from around his neck and he released his from her waist. She wandered to the window and looked out at the city. She could see the ocean from their room, and stepped out onto the balcony, feeling the warm breeze.

He followed her out and wrapped his arms around her from behind. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back into his chest. She'd miss this - the contact. The closeness. Long distance wasn't going to be easy.

She felt the sturdiness of him behind her and it gave her confidence. She sighed, "Can I ask you something?"

His chest rumbled against her as he replied, "Anything."

"Um," she wasn't sure exactly how to ask, but decided to not mince her words, "where do you see this going? Us I mean."

He tensed slightly behind her, and she was glad they weren't facing each other. Sometimes important conversations were easier without the eye contact.

"Well, I don't want to scare you away, but I'm hoping for something...long term."

She smiled and closed her eyes, placing her hand on his arms around her and saying with certainty, "That doesn't scare me at all."

"Yea?" he asked, sounding skeptical.

She turned around to face him and nodded, wrapping arms around his neck again and bringing her lips to his. She relaxed into him and took in everything; the warm breeze playing with her hair, the smell of sunscreen and sand, the warm sun on her shoulders. And him. His hands wrapped around her waist and she took a mental snapshot, knowing that this moment and all the moments since she'd gotten to Miami would have to last a long time. She could already see herself back in her office daydreaming about it. But for now, for today, all she could do was enjoy every moment to the fullest, and brace herself for the inevitable heartache of leaving.

XXXXXX

"Hey Veronica, you've got a visitor."

Veronica furrowed her eyebrows at the receptionist, confused, "Who? Oh, is it Daniel Mathews? He said he'd be stopping by this week to make some last minute-"

"-No," the receptionist shook her head, "he said his name is Arnold?"

More confusion.

"I don't have a meeting with anyone scheduled, and no clients with that name."

"Do you want me to send him away?"

She looked around at her desk, the paperwork that needed to be done, and decided she'd rather talk to this mystery man than subject herself to the work in front of her, "No it's fine, send him in."

The receptionist shrugged, "Ok."

She waited for her guest to enter, the suspense already killing her. A beat later, her door opened again, and her heart stopped.

"Mister-"

"-Arnold, for now," he greeted, taking the seat opposite her desk, "I apologize for the deception, but I can't be using my real name these days."

She couldn't believe her eyes and could barely suppress the overwhelming excitement that threatened to bubble up. She wanted to grin from ear to ear, to run around the building with childish delight, squealing and screaming to everyone that Aldo Burrows had gotten her message. And he had come to see her.

Lincoln had a chance. The hope and excitement and relief all came together in an overwhelming wave, threatening to take over her. She took a deep breath and forced her emotions to stay in check- ordering her face to remain neutral.

"That's understandable," she offered in a professional tone, feeling like she might burst, "what can I do for you?"

He sighed and leaned back in the chair, his eyes searching her face and taking in every detail. A small smile appeared on his face, "It's good to see you," he said after a moment.

She couldn't help but grin back, "You too."

"I can't thank you enough for everything you've done for my sons, both of them."

He was genuine, but his words made her face fall, putting a damper on her excitement. His words made her feel like a fraud.

"I failed them," she replied soberly, "both of them."

"No," he shook his head firmly, "nope that was me. I could have fixed all of this a long time ago but I-," he paused a moment, "-I was afraid. I still am."

"It's not too late to fix this."

He nodded, "I agree, but I am concerned that it'll involve more than everyone thinks. This isn't as simple as me confessing to the leak and them just letting Lincoln and Michael go free. It's...it's a lot more involved than that."

"Then tell me about it," she demanded, hungry for more information.

He leaned forward, "Say I do come forward. Say I tell the whole world that Terrance Steadman and his company, Ecofield, were involved in a scandal with the government. That his sister Caroline's vote on an important environmental matter was swayed because she was under the thumb of The Company, who had stakes in Ecofield. Then what?"

"Well, then they let Lincoln go," she asserted, "Steadman, as far as I can tell, isn't even dead. The whole cover up of the scandal was a ploy to flush you out. This whole thing is just-"

"-this whole thing," he interjected, and then sighed, rubbing his eyes, "this whole thing is a web, a never-ending web that just holds onto you tighter the more you struggle."

"So, what?" she asked, growing agitated, "you came here to tell me that the whole thing is hopeless? That you're not going to do it?"

"No, I-" he paused again, "I'm sorry," he took a moment to gather himself, "I'm just concerned that my coming forward won't get Lincoln out of The Company's crosshairs. Or Michael. They may be free in the eyes of the law, but that won't stop The Company."

"Why do you think...wait," she shook her head, "Michael already is out of their crosshairs."

Aldo looked up, "What?"

"You must not have heard- he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Company doctors agreed to perform surgery for free and give him his freedom. He's recovering now and he...he's a free man. Aside from working for The Company."

He jolted, "Working for them?!"

She nodded slowly, trying to keep him calm, "it was part of the deal. They save his life and get him out of prison," she shrugged, "and he works for them."

Shaking his head, "This is bad."

She was getting frustrated again- he needed to share with her, "Tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking that getting Lincoln his freedom as far as the law is concerned isn't enough. He needs to be free from The Company, and apparently, so does Michael."

"That may be, but Lincoln is back on death row in case you haven't noticed. Getting him free in the eyes of the law is the first step."

He nodded soberly, "How much time do we have?"

"They haven't set a date yet."

He paused, deep in thought.

After a beat, Veronica asked, "Do you have any ideas on how to get The Company off their backs?"

Rhetorically, "Do you know what The Company wants?"

Surprised by his question, "Uh," she thought a moment, "never really thought about it."

"Power and money."

She shrugged and gave a slight eye roll, silently conveying a, "duh".

"I know, I know," he offered, "which isn't a surprise, it's what most people want, but they're willing to go to extreme lengths to get it."

"What's your point?"

"They want global economic domination, control of the global economy. Obviously, their roots are in the U.S…but if you want to rule the world, sinking your teeth into a global superpower like the U.S. is a good start."

She nodded, following his logic so far.

"They've been working on a project for years, something called the Bargain theory, that'll be worth millions and sold to the highest bidder. Technology far beyond anything else being created right now, and one that'll allow the country that buys it to be catapulted fifty years into the future, at least."

"Ok, so?"

"So, no one outside of The Company knows about it yet."

"Then how do you know?"

"I've kept in contact with an agent-"

"-Who?"

"The less you know the better, but she and I worked together on a few missions back in the day. She wants out of The Company now too, but is waiting for the right moment. She'd help me."

"I'm sorry," feeling lost in a maze, "help you what?"

"Well, either steal it, or blow their cover and tell the world about the technology they're developing. If word got out about Scylla, The Company would become a target. We wouldn't have to take them out, someone else would do it in an attempt to steal their technology and information."

"Scylla?"

"Oh, sorry. The data drive with all the information on it. It's locked up of course, tons of security."

"This sounds like a lot of trouble," she shook her head, already dreading the process, "and if we somehow managed to steal it…then what?"

"Two options," he answered, obviously having thought this through, "one; we destroy it. Two," he paused, "we sell it to the U.S. government. Or NATO. I mean, if some nation or group of nations is going to have advanced technology, don't we want it to be us? Otherwise, we're looking at Russia or China as possible buyers."

She couldn't deny that another country buying this thing sounded like a bad idea, "Fair point, but didn't you just say that The Company has agents in the U.S. government?"

"They do, which means we'd have to make all the arrangements with someone we can trust."

"And do you have contacts you trust?"

"I do."

She sighed, her mind reeling, "Well, uh…"

"I know it's a lot to take," he offered.

"That's an understatement," she leaned back in her chair. Redirecting, "I'm still concerned about getting Lincoln out of Fox River. That has to happen first."

He nodded, "And I will confess in public to the leak and help you find proof that Steadman is alive."

"Thank you," not wanting to be insensitive, "and uh, when might that happen?"

He sighed, "As much as I'd love to confess today, we need to get the house in order before moving forward on this."

"How can I help?"

He thought for a moment, "If you hear anything about the execution date being set, let me know right away," he tapped a finger against his lip, "I need to get in touch with my contact within The Company…make sure she's on board."

"Ok," she waited for more, wanting to be more useful, "anything else?"

He smiled slyly, "Ambitious, I like it- here," he slid a burner phone across her desk to her, "use this to contact me, any time. Keep me in the loop about Lincoln and I'll do the same with anything I learn."

She nodded and took the phone, "Will do."

She put the phone in her bag and almost laughed to herself. She now had two burner phones, her regular cell, and her office phone. Before long she wouldn't be able to keep track of which is which.

Aldo got up, "Thanks for talking to me," he paused in the doorway, relieved, "I gotta be honest...I wasn't sure what to expect."

"What," she smiled, "you thought I would rip you a new one the second you walked in here?"

He chuckled and waved a finger at her, "You always were a fiery one, and I can't say I don't deserve it," he grew more serious again, "really, thank you."

XXXXXX

Mahone watched his computer screen with renewed interest. A man exited Veronica's office and was in clear view of the camera he'd installed across the street to keep tabs on her. Like a mouse in a trap, the man's face was in clear view. A quick run through facial recognition identified the man as Aldo Burrows.

Interesting.

He dug his shaky hands into the hidden pocket inside of his jacket pocket, pulling out his pen and dumping out one of the small white pills inside, popping it into his mouth.

Moments later everything softened. The edges of his mind became blurred and a heaviness came over him. His eyes went easily out of focus, comfortably drifting.

Aldo Burrows was visiting Veronica Donovan. The pieces were fitting together; he must be the man Veronica had summoned on the news, which meant there was only one thing for him to do; arrest him and bring him in for questioning.

If he visited Veronica once he'd likely do it again, and when he did, they'd be there to get him.

XXXXX

Sara blinked her eyes open and felt the weight of Michael's arm wrapped tightly around her. He was snuggled in tightly against her back; a warm cocoon protecting them both from the crisp coolness coming out of the air conditioner.

She took a deep breath and sighed, her mind peacefully blank, still engulfed by morning sleepiness.

Thoughts of the previous night slowly crept into her awareness; comforting memories. Up until last night, she'd slept in a chair while Michael slept in the hospital bed. Sure, she'd occasionally joined him in his bed, but it was a bit too small for two adults.

At the sight of the king bed the day before, Michael had offered it to her and said that he could sleep on the couch. The memory made her smile; from the first moment he'd stepped into the infirmary back at Fox River he'd been nothing if not a gentleman. Of course, she'd denied his offer; he was under strict orders for no "strenuous activity" anyways since he's still recovering, and there was no harm in sharing a bed.

His warmth behind her affirmed that she'd made the right choice, and she reveled in it. After a moment she glanced at the alarm clock and sadly acknowledged that she had to get a ride to the airport in just a few hours.

As if sensing her distress, Michael stirred, his arm stretching above and away from her, yawning.

Turning to face him, "Morning."

He smiled sleepily, grumbling, his eyes not fully open yet, "Morning."

"Sleep ok?"

"Hmm," he hummed, "like a rock."

"How's your head?"

He chuckled, "Twenty questions already?"

Shyly, "I just want to make sure you're really doing ok before I up and leave you."

He draped his arm over her side again, "I'm fine, really."

She sighed, "Ok."

They faced each other and snuggled closer, their faces inches apart. His clear blue eyes met her brown ones, "Although I can't say I'm happy about you leaving today."

"I know," she agreed, holding his gaze as she saw the sadness creep into his eyes. Desperate to cheer him up, "But at least I'll get to check on Lincoln, I'll let you know how he's doing. How he's really doing."

That seemed to assuage him a bit, "I'm glad you'll be there for him."

"Me too."

He glanced over at the clock, "What time do you have to leave?"

"Around ten."

"Well in that case," he reached over to grab the menu on the side table, "room service?"

She smiled, "Won't say no to that."

XXXXX

Sara's plane landed smoothly, and she gazed out the window, ready to get home and get settled before going back to work the next day.

It was afternoon already, so she'd probably just unpack, start laundry and make sure she had some food for the week. The last thing she felt like doing was grocery shopping, but she'd rather not starve, and remembered that her refrigerator was scarcely stocked when she'd left.

She leaned back in her seat as the plane taxied to the gate, enjoying her last moments of rest before having to be productive the rest of the night.

It was sprinkling out and everything was green now, lush from the spring rain. So much had changed since she'd left; blossoms were everywhere, and she could smell the earthy humidity from inside the plane. It was as if winter had fully become spring in the short time she'd been gone. It made coming back feel even more strange- like she wasn't coming back to the same place.

The seat belt light dinged off and everyone stood up. She stretched and grabbed her bag, tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear and waiting for everyone ahead of her to get off. While waiting she remembered she was supposed to do something and took out her phone.

"Landed safe," she texted to Michael. He'd asked her multiple times to let her know, and she'd promised she would.

A reply came quickly, "I'm glad."

"Let me know how things go tomorrow," she replied.

He was set to start working the next day; small stuff, they'd said, getting to meet everyone, and being briefed on what had been done on Bargain so far.

"I will, and you promise not to work too hard on your first day back ;)"

She chuckled softly, "No guarantees."

She could only imagine what was awaiting her at Fox River. Paperwork a mile high, new inmate files to go over…she sighed, she'd probably be there until midnight tomorrow.

XXXXX

Michael sat out on the hotel balcony, enjoying the sun, but missing the woman who'd been next to him only a few hours before. It was quiet now- too quiet. Not only was there an absence of noise around him, spare the wind through the palm trees and the faint sound of ocean waves, but the utter stillness inside his mind.

It was weird.

There was no denying that the surgery had altered his mental state; his thoughts weren't so jumbled and hurried, and not so overwhelming. He was able to shut out details that had previously demanded his attention.

This new mental state wasn't necessarily bad, it was just different. Having Sara with him for the past week had distracted him from it, but now with her gone it was just him alone with his thoughts. No one to talk to, and nothing to really do with himself. If he was being honest, he'd attributed his fuzzier state of mind with being in love, although that case couldn't really hold much water. He'd felt love for Sara even back at Fox River, and his mind had still been firing on all cylinders then. This was definitely different, and he had to assume it was a result of the surgery.

A knock on his door startled him, "Mr. Scofield?" a man's voice called from behind the door.

He got up and made his way over, not yet opening the door.

The voice continued, "I uh, I have a few things here for you. Some stuff they wanted you to have before starting work tomorrow."

He looked through the peephole briefly, and upon seeing a well-dressed man with no weapon, decided to open the door.

The man offered a nod and handed him a briefcase, "Thank you," Michael said as he grabbed it.

"Sure thing," the man replied before turning and walking away.

Curious now, Michael took the briefcase and set it down on the small table in the room, clicking open the latches and opening the lid.

Inside was a laptop and charging cord, along with a manila envelope.

He gently picked up the laptop and cord, plugging it into the wall and taking a seat in one of the two chairs, opening the laptop. A login screen stared back at him and he realized he didn't have one.

Furrowing his brow, he stood back up and put the laptop in the seat, going back to the manila file, hoping for some more information. Sure enough, the file contained a username and password, along with the pathways he needed to access information regarding what had already been done on the Bargain theory. Content and almost eager for something to occupy his mind, he plopped back down in the chair and logged in, opening up multiple files.

It was late afternoon, but he still had the rest of the day to skim everything over and he was glad. He'd spent enough time during the past week doing nothing and was hungry for something useful to do.

He thought briefly of Lincoln, stuck back in Fox River, likely in solitary. If anyone could understand the resentment of too much free time alone, it was him. His chest constricted at the thought, hating that after everything, Lincoln was back to where he'd started.

The computer in front of him shone brightly as engaging diagrams and plans appeared one by one, things that under normal circumstances would have thrilled him. He knew it was nerdy to be that excited for blueprints and the like, but he never cared. To him, engineering made sense, when most everything else in the world didn't. It was organized and logical, not chaotic and unpredictable. But today, the diagrams before him were tainted. They were the work of a company that sentenced his brother to death, destroyed his family in too many ways to count…but he had to follow through. There would be a time and a place to weasel his way out of working for them, but it wasn't today.

For now, especially with Lincoln back on death row, he had to keep his head down and do his work. He could be a solid, reliable employee for the time being, while he secretly worked with Veronica in his down time to figure all of this out. And Sara…although he hated dragging her into this. But, she was able to have face to face contact with Lincoln and that was a definite plus, keeping their lines of communication far more open.

He shook off all worrying notions and directed his focus back to the computer, ordering himself to study and learn. Tomorrow it was time to get back to work.

XXXXX

Sara hadn't been at Fox River more than twenty minutes when her cell phone buzzed on her desk. She hadn't seen any patients yet and was filling out a few forms in quiet solitude. Katie wasn't in yet; Sara had come in extra early to get a jump on things.

The night before she'd actually turned in at a reasonable hour, after a brief run to the grocery store and some half-hearted cooking efforts to get her through the week.

It was still dark outside the infirmary window, with the early light of dawn just starting to creep over the horizon. Her desk lamp illuminated the papers in front of her; she'd opted for its soft glow instead of the harsh fluorescent lights above her.

Blinking herself out of a paperwork daze, she ran a hand through her hair and picked up her cell, reading the message from Veronica, "Hey, I know you just got back, but are you free any time soon? We need to talk."

Shit. She'd forgotten about meeting up with her after she got back. It wasn't that she didn't want to see her – it would be nice to catch up and talk about everything going on, but she had a feeling she'd need to stay late at work tonight.

She typed her reply, "Soon for sure, but maybe not tonight…I'm guessing I'll have to work late. Maybe tomorrow?"

A reply came quickly, "Tomorrow is fine, but could we do coffee tomorrow morning before work? This is pretty urgent."

She felt a subtle queasy feeling come over her; Veronica wasn't one to blow things out of proportion so if she said it was important-it was.

"Sure. I usually come into work by eight, when works for you?"

"How about seven?"

"Sounds good, I know a good place – I'll text you the address."

"Ok, see you then!"

She set her phone down, her foot taping nervously up and down. On the bright side, she gets to visit her favorite coffee shop and catch up with a friend…however, her friend obviously has some important and probably bad news to share. And now she has to wait a day to find out what it is. Great.

She blew out a sigh and got up, choosing to move around a bit and make sure everything in the infirmary was sterile and stocked, ready for the day. Paperwork could wait a few more hours, and she needed to give her mind a chance to wander and chew on what Veronica had said…or, not said.

All possible bad scenarios ran through her mind as she filled a jar with swabs. Had the execution date been set?

A thought occurred to her, and she went back to her office to check her sheet for the day. At ten that morning she had an appointment with Lincoln. It was listed as a, "New inmate exam."

She laughed sadly and shook her head. New inmate.

At least she'd get to see him and talk in person. She made a mental note to put up the privacy curtain so they could talk even more freely. She doubted the officer who guarded the infirmary could read lips, but she didn't want to take any chances.

XXXX

Lincoln entered the infirmary and sighed, the familiar smell of alcohol and cleanliness filling his nostrils. It was a stark contrast to where he spent most of his time, the stale dankness of solitary. Coming up here was a kind of reprieve; the room was bright and clean…he could see why Michael liked it. Maybe faking diabetes had its perks after all.

The guard instructed him to sit on the exam table, "Wait here. You won't cause any trouble, right?"

"Nope," Lincoln agreed and took a seat.

The guard exited the room and Lincoln looked around, watching through the window to Sara's office. She had the phone pressed between her cheek and shoulder, a file in her hand, scribbling something down as she listened.

Maybe it was all the time in solitary, or maybe it was a genuine liking and appreciation for her, but it was really good to see her. She was a familiar face that was on his side, and someone he could talk to freely about everything that was on his mind.

She hung up the phone and shook her head with a slight eye roll, obviously unhappy with whoever she'd been speaking with. Lincoln couldn't help but crack a small smile and look down, trying to hide his amusement as she made her way out of the office and into the infirmary.

The door clicked open and she shut it behind her, "Hi," she greeted, his file in her hand.

"Hey."

She wheeled the privacy curtain over and placed it between them and the door, "How are you?" she asked simply, tossing the file on the table beside him.

"Been better."

She nodded, "He's doing well, Lincoln. Really well."

"Good," he replied, sighing with genuine relief, "any idea yet how to get him out of the deal?"

"No," she shook her head and crossed her arms, "he's gonna start working on a project for them tomorrow and, "keep his head down," as he put it. For now. At least until you're in the clear."

"Or dead," he replied flatly.

He saw her flinch at his obtuseness and apologized, "Sorry."

"No," she recovered, "don't be. Have they said anything more about that? Set a date?"

He shook his head, "Not yet."

"And is Veronica…?"

"Still helping, but…" his voice trailed off, debating whether or not to share the danger he'd put her in.

"What?" she prompted.

"It's getting dangerous, I don't know…I'm afraid she'll get hurt."

Sara inched closer, eyes locked into his, "Hurt how?"

"You know that agent from on T.V.? The one assigned to find us?"

She nodded, "Yea, Mahone, was it?"

"That's the guy. Anyway, he came to see me after I got back here and threatened her."

Her mouth opened but she was silent a moment before, "How?"

"Didn't say. Just said he'd go after her if I didn't tell him where Michael was."

She put the pieces together, "He doesn't know that Michael is free?"

"Nope."

"And you didn't tell him?"

He shook his head, "No. I don't know what The Company did to grant him freedom, but I didn't want Mahone and the F.B.I. un-doing it somehow. Better for him to think he's still on the run."

She thought silently for a minute, grabbing her stethoscope and placing it on his chest, starting to go through the motions.

"Did you tell Veronica?"

"Yea, last time she visited I told her to watch her back."

"When was that?"

"Few days ago."

She nodded and pressed the stethoscope to his back, "Deep breath for me."

He did as instructed.

"I'm meeting with her tomorrow morning," she told him, "I'll let you know what she says."

"When?" he asked, "I doubt I'll have to come up here again any time soon."

"I'll come up with something…some reason to get you in here."

"Thanks, doc," then corrected, "thanks…Sara. Means a lot."

She nodded and wound the stethoscope around her neck, "You're welcome."


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: Whew, lots going on here. Hopefully it makes some kind of sense. I love hearing from you all, and hope you enjoy this next chapter! :)

XXXXX

It was barely dawn as Aldo grabbed his scant belongings and headed out of his latest motel room. It was a constant game of moving from place to place, always paying cash, and never making a spectacle out of himself.

He needed to make a phone call and needed somewhere private and obscure to do so. Having lived in Chicago for a solid chunk of years, he knew a few places, and opted for a park – but not the one he used to take the boys to when they were little. They didn't go often, he realized with guilt, but when he'd been home they liked to go there and play catch. He couldn't risk revisiting that spot; if anyone was looking for him, they'd likely know about all of his old hang out spots.

Instead, he picked a park on the other side of town, close to the lake. It was cool and damp, the sun barely peeking up. Not many people were out and about yet, aside from a few dedicated joggers.

His backpack was comfortably slung over his shoulder as he dialed the number.

"Yea?" a familiar woman's voice answered.

"Know who this is?" he questioned.

He could practically hear the smirk on her bright red lips, "I do, although I have to say I'm quite surprised to be hearing from you."

"I need your help."

"Sounds like you need a lot of it from what I've-"

"-can I trust you or not?" he interrupted. He knew her and knew her games; he didn't have time for that. They'd worked together on a few missions before and she was a solid agent, but her motives were sometimes questionable.

"You can," she replied coyly, then tiredly, "I want out too."

"Good," he replied.

"What do you need?"

"Information."

"About?" she prompted.

"How to retrieve a certain data drive."

She blew out a breath, "As much as I love looking on the bright side of things, you and I both know that's basically a suicide mission."

"Not if you plan it right."

"I'm intrigued," she admitted, "but what's in it for me?"

"Millions of dollars. Freedom."

Slyly, "I suppose I see the allure."

He shook his head amused, still the same Gretchen he'd known before, "Can you help or not?"

"Oh, count me in," she agreed readily, "but perhaps we should meet somewhere in person to discuss the details."

"Agreed. How about tomorrow?"

"Tell me when and where."

XXXXX

"Dr. Tancredi!" the blonde barista greeted her with a huge smile.

"Hey, Kayla," Sara replied, equally as enthused to be back, "how are you?"

"I'm good!" she replied, her eyes roaming over Sara, "you look…tan. And relaxed. Did you actually take a vacation?"

She laughed and looked down at herself, as if not believing her that she'd actually gotten some sun, "I did, I did…it had been a while."

"I guess so," still smiling, "want the usual?"

"Yes please," she handed her cash, "keep the change."

"Thanks," she replied, taking it, "it's good to have you back," she started making her coffee, peering at Sara from behind the espresso machine, "and I'm not just saying that because of the tip," she winked.

Another laugh, "I appreciate that, it's good to see you again."

Still smiling, she made her way to the opposite counter to wait, her eyes roaming the small space for a good spot to sit and wait for Veronica. A table for two in the corner caught her eye; it was away from the counter and therefore away from most of the foot traffic. She had a feeling whatever Veronica had to say should be out of earshot for the general public.

It was strange still having to be so secretive about it, and knowing that she and Michael, Lincoln and Veronica were all up to their necks in a nationwide scandal, coverup, and breakout.

"Here you go!" Kayla called to her, snapping her out of her thoughts.

"Thanks so much," she grabbed it and made her way over to the corner, setting her drink down and taking a seat.

Her phone buzzed, "Almost there," Veronica texted her.

"No problem, want me to order you anything?"

"Just some coffee, black. Thanks!"

She got back up, leaving her drink to claim their spot and ordered for Veronica, carrying the steaming mug back to their table just as Veronica arrived.

She smiled when she saw Sara and made her way over, plopping down across from her and setting her massive bag down on the ground.

"Geez, I thought I had a lot of paperwork," Sara remarked.

Veronica laughed, "This thing is going to break my back I swear," seeing the mug before her, "ugh thank you so much," lifting it to her mouth and taking a sip.

"No problem, so what's going on?"

Setting the mug down, "where to even begin," meeting her eyes, "but first, how's Michael? Doing ok, really?"

She nodded, "He is. Recovering really well and seems to be handling everything ok. I told him I'd keep an eye on Lincoln," she gripped the mug in front of her, "and let him know how he's doing."

"I'm sure that'll help," reminiscing, "they've always been so close."

"So I've come to understand," she agreed, taking a sip of her drink. She reached up absentmindedly to fiddle with the chain of her necklace, only to find empty space.

She looked down, confused.

"What?" Veronica asked.

"Uh, nothing…" she looked again, searching the space around her, "just, my necklace is gone."

"Your necklace?"

"Yea it's a," she gestured around, trying to describe it, "a black rectangle on a silver chain. My grandma gave it to me when I graduated medical school. I always wear it…"

Veronica looked around as well, "Did you have it this morning?"

"I," she thought back, "I mean I never really take it off," reasoning, "maybe I lost it on the flight back or something…could've caught on the strap of my bag."

"True," she agreed, sympathetically, "I hope it turns up."

Sara shook her head, remembering why she was there, "Sorry for that tangent," looking back up at Veronica, "what was it you wanted to tell me?"

She leaned over the table, quieter, "Their father came to see me."

Shocked, "He did?"

Nodding, "Yesterday. Said he's willing to confess to the whole scandal, but he has some concerns."

Soberly, "I'd have a lot of concerns if I were him."

"No kidding. But in a nut shell, he's worried that even if Lincoln and Michael are free in the eyes of the law, they still won't be free of The Company."

Curious, "What did he suggest?"

"He didn't give me the details…the whole, "the less you know the better," thing, but he said they have a data drive called Scylla. I guess it has a bunch of information on some theory that'll be worth millions. He wants to steal it from The Company and sell it to the U.S. government – otherwise it might be sold to a foreign country and somehow used against us."

Processing, "Huh…us?"

"The United States. Sounds like whatever is on Scylla will make whoever has it a global superpower."

Sara's eyes narrowed, "Wait, what theory?"

"He called it the Bargain theory."

Realizing, "Uh…"

"What?"

She took a sip before answering, "That's what they have Michael working on."

Veronica leaned forward, "Seriously!?"

Nodding, "Yup, he starts today."

"Oh my God," she took a moment, processing the ramifications, "this could be good! Michael will have access to it, maybe even to Scylla-"

"-which could also put him in danger. You said millions of dollars and something that'll make the buyer a global superpower…sounds like dangerous territory to be wandering into."

"I know," she ran her fingers up and down the handle of her mug, "but we've gotta start somewhere."

Nodding, "Did Aldo say when he'll come forward?"

"Not yet, I think he's waiting for the execution date to be set…or maybe to get more information from his contact within The Company."

"Who's that?"

"Didn't say."

Annoyed and mockingly, "The less you know the better."

Veronica pointed, "Now you're getting it."

They laughed.

Sara remembered her promise, "Is there anything I should tell Lincoln?"

She considered a moment, "I mean, Aldo seemed committed to coming forward and getting Lincoln off death row. The rest of it seems a bit up in the air," her eyes wandered down and away, "I don't want to get any hopes up."

After a moment, "So…?"

She shrugged, "Up to you. Maybe for now just tell him that Aldo contacted me and said that he'd come forward. Lincoln can decide whether or not to trust him at this point."

Sara nodded.

With business out of the way, they chatted a while longer like old friends. Conversations with Veronica were always easy and natural, especially considering that their relationship was built on such dangerous grounds.

At quarter to eight they both reluctantly got up, knowing they couldn't stall heading to work any longer. Outside the coffee shop now, they said their goodbyes and went their separate ways, both promising to be in touch with any updates.

XXXXX

Michael buttoned up his light blue dress shirt and shrugged on his tan jacket. They were the only decent clothes he had with him, left over from his blending-in-with-civilians days. He'd have to go shopping for more business attire, which he was dreading, but figured for today this would be good enough.

He wasn't trying to impress anyone anyways.

The laptop was carefully placed back into the briefcase along with the manila folder, and he secured it shut, tightened his tie, and looked in the mirror.

The stubble on his head was growing longer, and the scars from his surgery were small and barely visible anymore. He looked like any other man heading into to work for the day.

Fake it til you make it, his own words echoed in his head, remembering having said that to the others as they'd eluded Mahone and blended in with the residents of whatever charming, small town they'd been in on their last day together. He hoped they were all doing ok…he hadn't heard from anyone. But, he realized, he hadn't seen them on the news either. No news is good news as far as he was concerned.

With one last look in the mirror, he grabbed the briefcase and headed out the door.

He'd gotten an email the night before with the room number he was supposed to head to; he'd be in the same building he had his surgery in, but on the sixth floor instead. Other than that, he had no idea what to expect.

Nothing new about that, he realized. He'd planned as best as he could before getting himself thrown into Fox River, but not much had gone according to the plan since then. He'd been flying by the seat of his pants for a while now – not something he enjoyed, but something he was getting accustomed to. It was his nature to be a planner, but he'd begun to appreciate the value of flexibility.

He headed into the day with that in mind; whatever happened, he'd go along with it. For now.

It was another sunny day in Miami as he left the hotel and walked a few blocks, back to The Company. He realized he'd have to start looking for an apartment soon as well as getting several important things he'd lost; an actual driver's license, a credit card…he shook his head, not wanting to overwhelm himself with mundane tasks of adulthood just before stepping into work for the first day.

But it was something he'd have to keep in mind and take care of on his next day off, whenever that might be.

He walked into the building and was greeted by the receptionist again, "Good morning, Mr. Scofield, welcome back."

"Thank you," he nodded politely and stepped onto the elevator, pressed the number six, and waited.

When he reached his floor and stepped off, it was as if he stepped into an entirely different building. The floor where his surgery was done had a distinctly medical air about it; blues and grays, the color of scrubs and metallic equipment. This was different; there were greens instead of blues, and brown, earthy tones mingled with the metallic shine of technology. It was appealing, just like everything else he'd seen so far in the building.

Following the signs on the wall, he found the correct room number. It was a wooden door with no window and was shut, so he knocked.

A tall, bald man in a suit opened it and shook his hand, "You must be Michael," his voice boomed, "I'm Henry, nice to meet you."

"You too," he replied.

"Come on in, have a seat," Henry gestured to the chair opposite his desk.

Michael looked around at the roomy office; a wall of windows overlooking the city and a continuation of the color scheme from the hallway.

"I hope you've had a chance to look over everything we've sent you?"

"I have," Michael confirmed, dropping into the chair.

"Good," he nodded, "today you'll meet the rest of the team. You'll have your own office, just a few doors down from mine, but you'll likely spend a few hours a day conversing with your colleagues," then with pride, "we've got a brilliant group here, and it's always good to bounce ideas off each other, right?"

"Sure," he agreed, taking in the body language and tone of the man in front of him. He seemed genuine and upbeat.

"Great! Do you have any questions for me?"

Thoughtfully, "What's your role in all this?"

"Well, I'm the project supervisor," he leaned back and gestured to a degree on the wall behind him, "I'm an engineer myself, but mostly oversee the group at this point. I guess you could say I'm past my prime," he chuckled, "rather let the bright young minds of the future take over. I'm here for support and guidance. On the off chance that you'll need any."

He nodded, Henry slowly earning his trust, "Sounds good."

"Well," Henry stood up, "let's get you to your office."

They walked a few doors down as promised and Henry handed him a name badge, one that opened the door with a swipe. Inside was practically a mirror image of Henry's office. A tad smaller maybe, but that made sense considering Henry was the supervisor.

"Have at it," he gestured him to walk in, "you'll get a call around nine or so. That's usually when the group meetings start."

"Thank you."

"Sure thing," he nodded and walked away.

XXXXX

"I have to see him today," Sara insisted.

"What the hell for?" Bellick barked back.

Her eyes locked into his, voice dripping with contempt, "Well, if you remember from last time, I have to perform a weekly physical on Lincoln to make sure that he's healthy enough to execute. I need to see him today."

Shifting his weight, "He just had a physical yesterday."

"That was a new inmate physical. This is different."

His jaw clenched.

"Officer Bellick you know as well as I do that it's against the law to deny a prisoner medical care. There are forms involved that have to be filed out. I wouldn't want to have you or anyone else get into trouble for this."

Giving in, "Fine. I'll have him sent up here when I get the chance."

"Now, please," she shot back, "this is the only time clear in my schedule today."

With fake sincerity, "Whatever you say doc," clicking the button on his radio, "Hey Bob?"

"Yes sir?"

"Send Burrows up to the infirmary."

"Copy that."

Another fake smile, "He's on his way."

Just as sarcastic, "Thank you so much."

XXXXX

"Come on, Linc. Back to the infirmary you go," Bob told him, opening the door to his cell.

"What the hell for?" he replied, not wanting to let on that he was happy to go back.

"Not sure, just following orders," he replied, cuffing Lincoln and holding his arm.

"Uh-huh."

They walked up to the infirmary and Bob left Lincoln on the exam table, taking his position outside the door.

Sara glanced over and saw him, dropping the papers in her hand onto her desk and heading his way.

Nodding, "Doc."

"Afternoon, Lincoln."

She moved the privacy curtain between them and the door again.

"How is she?" he asked.

"Good, she's fine," she assured, "I do have a bit of news for you though."

"What is it?"

"Well, I don't want you to get your hopes up yet, it's too soon and I mean we just found out-"

"-just tell me what it is."

Quietly, "Your father went to see Veronica."

Stunned silence.

"He told her he'd come forward about…everything."

More silence.

"We don't have any details yet…he's waiting until the execution date is set so we don't know when he's planning to come forward but-"

"-Why?" he interrupted, "why now."

Thrown off, "I…I'm not sure."

"He didn't do a damn thing the last time I was here," sadly, "why does he care now?"

She shrugged, aware that she was venturing into a touchy subject, "People change."

Shaking his head, "Not him. Not that much."

After thinking a moment, "From what Veronica said, it sounds like he's sick of running too. He's still a prisoner of The Company, the only difference is he's not behind bars."

A sarcastic snort, "Now that I'd believe. Him doing it out of self-interest."

"Well," she met his eyes, "whatever the reason…if it gets you out of here, does it really matter?"

Honestly, "Guess not."

Sighing, "Believe me, I understand what it's like to have a father you can't exactly trust."

With a smirk, "You mean politicians aren't trustworthy?"

She laughed, "Shocking I know," more serious, "I get it, Lincoln. I do. But whatever his reason, he'll be in contact with Veronica and she'll keep me updated," she paused, "and I'll have to keep thinking up reasons to get you in here more than once a week."

He cracked a small smile, "Appreciate it."

She performed another brief exam and started filling out the paperwork, allowing him to sit in the infirmary while she did. He knew that wasn't a normal thing, and he was grateful. He spent most of the time staring out the window; watching the inmates out on yard time, the occasional bird that flew by…anything was better than the nothingness he had to look at for the rest of the day.

Their visit ended too soon, and he was escorted back to his cell. Now that he was back in the darkness, his mind swirled with confusion. He was hopeful one minute and angry the next. Grateful and then distrustful. Optimism turned to dread. He didn't know what to think or how to feel.

He sighed, resigning himself to the fact that all he could do now was wait for the execution date to be set.

XXXXX

Michael got back to his hotel room around 6:30 that night, exhausted. And thrilled. It was a brilliant team and he had more interesting exchanges with fellow engineers than he'd had in a long time.

Temporary. This is all temporary. He reminded himself.

But at least it was something to keep him busy.

His head throbbed dully, but it didn't cause him any alarm. He'd just used his brain more during the last eight hours than he had in the last eight days.

Setting his briefcase on the table, he grabbed the menu and ordered room service for dinner. The Company was paying for it all anyways, so he figured why not run up the tab a bit. That and the fact that he didn't have a refrigerator…which reminded him that he needed to look for an apartment.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a message from Sara, "Hey, how'd your first day go?"

He smiled to himself, "Pretty good actually. How's your first day back?"

"I'm glad ? and eh, alright. Busy. I talked to your brother."

"And?"

"Oh! And I talked to Veronica. I have something to tell you but maybe a phone call would be better."

He smiled, already looking forward to hearing her voice, "Whenever works for you-call me."

"I'll try to leave before too long, then I'll call."

"Sounds good."

A knock at the door delivered the pasta he'd ordered. He decided to take it outside, settling into one of the chairs on the balcony. He tossed his phone in the other chair next to him so he was ready when Sara called.

His mind lulled as he ate, filtering through everything he'd learned throughout the day.

A fellow colleague informed him that most of the Bargain team engineers worked a typical Monday to Friday schedule, but it was flexible. If he ever had the itch, he could come in on a weekend – his badge got him into the building and his office at any time. And on the flip side, if he ever needed to leave early or take a long lunch, he was free to.

He'd have to tell Sara; hopefully he'd be able to go to Chicago to see her before too long.

Another surprise from the day was how far along The Company already was on the Bargain theory. It was in some of the final stages, which made him wonder what they'd do with him afterwards. Christina had said that he'd be required to work for them until Bargain was completed, but given the fact that it was almost ready to be implemented in the real world…he couldn't imagine them just cutting him loose so quickly.

His phone starting ringing, graciously snapping him out of the inevitable spiral of pessimistic thoughts.

He set his bowl down and picked it up, smiling, "Hey, Sara."

"Hey yourself," she replied, and he could tell that she was walking.

"Get out of work early?"

"More like on time, so yup. Early for me," she replied good naturedly, "how was your day, really?"

"It was good," he admitted, "almost too good; I need to remember that these people are the enemy."

"Ha, yea you do," she agreed, "but I mean, at least in the mean time your day to day life isn't gonna suck."

He chuckled, "I guess you're right. How're you?"

"Well," she sighed, "eventful day. I talked to both Veronica and Lincoln, had a lot to catch up on here of course, and oh- I lost my necklace."

He instantly pictured the one around her neck, "The one you always wear?"

"That's the one. It's not a big deal but it was…sentimental."

"Go on," he prompted.

"A gift from my grandmother; my mom's mom. She was the only one who really cared about what I did and gave it to me when I graduated from medical school."

His heart sank, "I'm sorry."

"Eh, it's not the end of the world," she replied nonchalantly, but he could tell that it stung.

An idea forming, "I guess I'll just have to get you a new one."

Intrigued but with disbelief, "You're going to buy me a necklace?"

"Yup."

"But you don't know anything about my taste in jewelry, aside from that one thing you've seen me wear."

With confidence, "I think I have a pretty good idea."

"Alright, we'll see," she challenged.

"I'll give it to you the next time we see each other, which, by the way, might be pretty soon."

Hopefully, "Yea?"

"From what I gather, The Company has a pretty flexible time-off policy. I don't know specifics," he admitted, "but a long weekend here and there should be feasible."

Smiling, "I'm glad."

"So, uh," wanting to get the secretive business out of the way, "what did Veronica and Linc have to say?"

"Oh yea," she remembered, "well, Veronica was paid a visit by your father."

Slowly, "She…she was?"

"Yup, and he told her he'd come forward about everything."

"Does Lincoln know?"

"I told him today- but naturally, he's skeptical."

He grabbed his half empty bowl of pasta and went back into the room, wanting to pace while they talked.

"Is she meeting with him again?"

"Yea but we don't know when. It sounds like he's waiting for the execution date to be set, and Michael, there's something else."

"What?"

"He," she hesitated, "he mentioned wanting to take down The Company, and it involves the project you're working on."

Slowly, "How?"

"Apparently what you're working on is a hot commodity. Worth millions. And the data drive, she said he called it Scylla, is going to be sold to the highest bidding country. Your father wants to steal it and sell it to the U.S. government, thinking that it would be in all of our best interest if a foreign government doesn't buy technology from us that'll launch them years ahead of the rest of the world."

Putting everything together, "He wants to steal from The Company, selling their million-dollar project, therefore destroying them and their reputation."

"Sounds like it," she confirmed.

"After he confesses about the whole Steadman scandal?"

"I-I'm not sure," she admitted, "Veronica didn't mention much of a timeline."

"Because if Lincoln's execution date is set for the near future, which it probably will be, and he confesses to everything…The Company will be all over him. The whole point of putting Lincoln on death row was to flush him out. They'll kill him before he can even attempt getting his hands on Scylla."

"Right, which is why he mentioned having a contact within The Company; maybe they'll steal it for him if he ends up in trouble after confessing."

Hesitantly, "Me?"

"No," she reassured, "someone he worked with before."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, a leftover habit from before the surgery, "Ok."

"I know it's a lot-" she started.

"-no it's ok, it's…thanks for letting me know."

They chatted a bit longer and Sara realized right when he started getting tired. It amazed him how well she could read him even over the phone. With doctor's orders to get some rest and not overdo it, he hung up reluctantly, took a quick shower, and turned in early for the night.


	23. Chapter 23

Mahone walked up to the F.B.I building, anxious and irritated. He was going after Aldo today; he hoped to bring him in for questioning, demanding that he tell him where Michael was.

Not being able to find him was driving him crazy.

He was still trying to make sense of Michael's tattoo, and had spent the better part of the previous day in a heightened state of anxiety thanks to a never-ending supply of caffeine. He'd come up with nothing, and it was causing him to spiral. But today could be different once he got Aldo in his grasp.

"Good morning, Alex," Bill Kim greeted him as he walked through the doors, which immediately made his guard go up; being greeted by his boss first thing in the morning was never a good sign.

He nodded and kept walking towards his office, "Kim."

"Why don't you step into my office," Kim asked, "there's something we need to discuss."

Hesitant but without a choice, he changed directions and followed Kim into his office.

"Take a seat," Kim instructed him, and he obliged.

"What's this about?" he asked, wanting to get straight to the point.

"Scofield."

"What about him?"

His expression remained neutral, "He's no longer your concern. I'm assigning you to a different task."

Baffled, "What do you mean Scofield isn't my concern anymore? I've been on this case from the start, no one knows anywhere near as much as I do-"

"-you're not hearing me," he interrupted, "he isn't of our concern anymore."

His emphasis on the word "our" indicated to Mahone that he wasn't referring to the F.B.I., but he was still confused, "Can I ask why?"

With a smirk, "No you can't."

He huffed out a frustrated laugh, "Well can I at least ask what I'll be assigned to now?"

He replied simply, "Burrows."

His brow knitted in confusion, "What about him? He's already in custody."

"Well," Kim folded his hands on his desk, "it's come to our attention that there may be someone poking around his case, trying to get a new trial. You and I both know we can't let that happen, so I need you to do whatever is necessary to make sure Burrows is actually executed," he paused, "as soon as possible."

His mind flashed to Veronica and then to Aldo and he sighed. He'd planned on going after them anyways to try to find Michael, but this was different. He'd never intended to actually hurt either of them, but the look on Kim's face indicated that he might not have that option.

He didn't know much about Aldo, but Veronica was innocent in this; she was just a lawyer and friend trying to do her job, and he certainly didn't relish the prospect of endangering her in any way.

"Alright," he sighed.

"Glad we understand each other," Kim replied, and Mahone got up to leave.

Oh we do, he thought with a feeling of hopelessness. When The Company tells you to do something, you do it. Otherwise, the secret that haunts him every day would come out into the open, destroying him once and for all.

He paused in the doorway of his office, surveying the papers strewn about, the images of Michael's tattoo staring back at him. The endless hours and mental exhaustion were for nothing, and not just from the day before. All of the days and endless waking hours since the Fox River eight had escaped, he was after Michael. The others too, but he knew Michael was the mastermind and genius behind it, and now that Michael wasn't his to worry about anymore, it was as if all of his efforts were brushed aside. It had all been for nothing.

Anger came over him in a flash and he slammed the door shut behind him, breaking everything around him, shredding the papers that yesterday were so important, seeing nothing but red. The case that challenged and intrigued him wasn't his anymore, and all he was left with was the task to capture and possibly torture an innocent. He slumped into his desk chair, the veins in his neck still popping out, and his face beet red. He sank forward and rested his face in his hands, anger giving way to sadness.

Will I ever get out of this mess?

XXXXX

The news rambled on in the background from the small T.V. in Aldo's current motel room. He was on the north side of Chicago this time, getting ready for his meeting with Gretchen.

He brushed his teeth, and just as he was spitting the toothpaste into the sink, he heard the T.V. from the other room, "Breaking news on the trial of death row inmate, Lincoln Burrows."

He wiped his face with the hand towel and tossed it down, quickly walking over to the T.V.

"Burrows was arrested after he and seven other inmates escaped the Fox River State Penitentiary. Now back on death row, he's set to face his execution just three weeks from today-"

His stomach dropped; three weeks.

That definitive time frame set the wheels in his mind spinning. It would probably be in everyone's best interest if he confessed within a week or two; no point in cutting it too close to the execution date. Given how slowly the wheels of justice turned, even after a full confession and hopefully coming up with enough evidence that Steadman is alive, Lincoln would still be in Fox River for a while.

That fact was strangely comforting. It was unlikely that The Company would be able to kill Lincoln if he was still in Fox River. Not impossible…but not likely. Being in prison kept him safer, at least for the now.

By the time Lincoln was free and clear with the law, Aldo would hopefully have his hands on Scylla and they could say finally put the whole matter to rest.

Hopefully; and that's where Gretchen came in.

He grabbed his keys and drove to their designated meeting spot; an abandoned warehouse in a sketchy part of town.

He parked and walked up to the building. It was covered with graffiti, some of which was actually impressive; the artistic skill of whoever had done it far better than his own. He leaned against the side that was facing the sun and enjoyed its warmth.

After a moment or two, he checked his watch and saw that it was five minutes past their scheduled meeting time. He figured he'd give her ten minutes at the most, and then head out. If there was any chance she'd ratted him out...well, he didn't want to be around to find out.

"Long time," her voice startled him from the side.

The dark-haired agent approached him confidently, her icy blue eyes locking onto his as she extended her hand.

He shook it, "No kidding," he agreed, "thanks for meeting me."

She replied with a breezy, "Well if I'm being honest, I might be here out of self-interest."

He shrugged, "I'd expect nothing less."

She smirked, "So, not to be pessimistic, but do you really expect to get your hands on Scylla?"

Flatly, "I think it's possible."

Unconvinced, "Do you know the kind of security they have around that thing? Motion sensors, heat detectors, noise sensors – anything that moves or breathes or weighs more than two ounces will be detected in an instant. The General gets a phone call and boom. Game over."

"But some people have access to it."

Firmly, "Only the General. There's an elevator in his office that goes down, straight to where it's kept. There might be a few people in his inner circle with some kind of access, but they wouldn't help us," sneering, "their loyalty knows no bounds."

He tilted his head, "But yours does?"

She met his gaze with a small smirk, but otherwise gave no indication of her intentions.

He paused, not wanting to spell it out, "If I remember correctly…your relationship with him was more than professional."

She didn't waver, "Not anymore."

"Your decision or his?" he asked.

Confused and slightly annoyed, "Did you come here to gossip about my social life or to get Scylla?"

"I just need to know what we're working with here."

She sized him up a moment before giving in, "Mine. He made it so that I'm never allowed to see Emily."

Genuinely, "I'm sorry." Not being able to see your child was a pain he could commiserate with, "but I think that'll work to our advantage."

"How?"

"If you can convince him that it was a mistake and you want back into his life, maybe you can exploit that relationship to get his office."

Mockingly, and with a wave of her hand, "Right, I'll just stroll on into his office for a booty call and he won't notice me getting into the elevator."

"Drugs."

Slowly and amused, "You want me to roofie the General?"

Shrugging, "Unless you have a better idea?"

"Hmm," she contemplated a moment, "can't say that I do, and while I'm fascinated by the possibility- what about his security? His staff? People come and go out of there all the time…always keeping an eye on him. Not to mention the fact that when he wakes up, he'll realize what I've done."

After a moment, "But by then we'll be gone. And as far as the staff…I guess you'll just have to figure something out."

Rolling her eyes, "You've always been so helpful."

A small smile, "Can't expect me to do everything."

She scoffed, "Oh, I never have. Why do you think Copperhead was so successful?"

He waited.

"Any operation is only as good as the agents on the ground," she replied, referring to herself.

He shook his head, amused, "That's a debate for another time," he replied, and started wrapping up their meeting, "I'll be in contact later with more details. For now-"

"-get friendly with the General," with a seductive smirk, "I know what I'm doing."

"I know you do," he confirmed, confident in his ally.

XXXXX

Mahone watched as Aldo pulled out of the parking lot of the warehouse, leaving the graffitied walls behind him.

The video footage from outside Veronica's office had granted him a glimpse at the car Aldo had. More than a glimpse actually; enough for a license plate number. With that stroke of luck, there was no need for him to wait for Aldo to visit Veronica again.

It was a rental car, as expected, but it was one that Aldo was still driving and that was all that mattered.

Mahone slowly pulled out of his own parking spot and followed him at a careful distance, all the way back to a motel on the north side of town.

Aldo parked and went into a ground floor room.

Mahone parked just down the street and watched as he entered, committing the room location to memory since he couldn't read the number from so far away; fourth door from the corner.

He got out of his car and double checked that his weapon was securely holstered, his F.B.I badge visible. He should have back up, but there was no time to waste, and few people he trusted.

He strode towards the motel, heart pounding in his ears. The sun felt hotter than normal, causing sweat to bead along his forehead and heat to radiate through his body in waves. He reached into his coat pocket and found one of his pills, gulping it down as he was now only a few strides away from the door.

He took a deep breath, his shaky hands knocking on the door, "F.B.I. open up," he demanded.

No response.

"Aldo Burrows, this is the F.B.I," he wasn't playing games, "I know you're in there. Things will go a lot more smoothly if you open the door."

Stillness behind the door, then a slightly shuffling, "I'm unarmed."

Dryly, "That's great, then I won't shoot you."

"I'm opening the door," Aldo warned.

Mahone stood back a step, gun raised self-protectively in anticipation.

The door cracked open slowly, revealing Aldo, unarmed as promised.

Mahone lowered his weapon, "We need to talk."

XXXXX

Katie fell into step next to Sara as they walked into Fox River, "You hear the news?"

Adjusting her bag on her shoulder, "What news?"

"I saw it this morning, Lincoln's execution is gonna happen in three weeks."

Sara slowed her pace, "You're sure?"

She shrugged, "That's what the reporter said."

Sighing, "Why are we always the last to know?"

Shaking her head, commiserating, "I don't know. I'm just sorry to see it all happening again. That guy has been through a lot these past few months."

More like in the past…his whole life, she thought, "Yes he has."

They walked up to the infirmary in silence, her mind chewing on what might happen next. She wanted to text Veronica, hoping that she already knew about the execution date, and see if she'd heard any more from Aldo.

Did Michael know? She wondered. He didn't watch much T.V. and it had only been by a stroke of luck that they'd seen Veronica on the news that night in his hospital room.

Last night when they talked she'd insisted that he go to bed early, and he'd probably spent his morning the same way she did; getting ready for work. He probably didn't know.

Katie went into the infirmary to get everything set up and ready, so Sara ducked into her office and plopped down in her chair. She pulled out her cell, and sent a quick message to him, "Did you see the news? We have a timeline now…"

No response.

He's probably working, she reasoned, considering that it was almost eight o'clock. He seemed like the type to show up early and get a jump on things – something they had in common, although this morning had been an exception for her. She'd slept through her first alarm and got dressed in a sleepy daze, wandering out to her car without so much as a cup of coffee.

She grimaced at the realization, kicking her past self for leaving her at the mercy of coffee from the break room.

She leaned back and ran her hands through her hair, shaking it loose and then pulling half of it up, pinning it back with a few bobby pins she found mingled in with the paperclips on her desk. Feeling slightly more presentable, she started rummaging through the papers on her desk, getting herself organized for the day.

She had to assume that Lincoln would be told about the date being set; that was the Warden's job, not hers, so she didn't have to lie her way into an excuse to see him today.

The lineup for her work day looked pretty typical; a few checkups on old injuries, a few routine patients who needed medications regularly…

Her chest constricted, missing Michael and his daily shots. It still felt different; her days at Fox River still missing a certain someone, and her evenings at home alone feeling…lonely.

Katie peeked her head in, "I meant to ask you; you wanna get lunch somewhere today and catch up? I need to live vicariously through whatever vacation you had."

That earned a smile, "That'd be great."

"I need all the details," she winked.

Suddenly wary, she replied with an innocent, "What do you mean?"

She pointed a finger, "Don't think I didn't notice the glow around you when you came back, and I'm not talking about the color from the sun."

She felt pink rising in her cheeks, "Uh-"

"-at lunch," she held up a hand, "all the details."

XXXXX

Aldo gestured for Mahone to have a seat, seeing no reason why they couldn't be civil. It was a crappy motel, but at least it had a table and two chairs- worn out but still functional.

Mahone sat and Aldo did the same. The morning sun shone through the window next to them, illuminating the dust particles floating between them; they flurried around as the two men took their seats, then slowed to a steady drift as a silence fell between them.

He waited in silence, Mahone staring him down, trying to make him uncomfortable.

Aldo knew the tricks and wasn't having it. He ventured, "If you're here to ask me where Michael is, I don't know."

Tilting his head, "Why would you assume that's why I'm here?"

Shrugging, "You have my other son in custody; process of elimination."

"Well, you're wrong, I'm not here about Michael."

"Oh?"

"No, in fact," his hand on the table began to tremble, "I was informed just yesterday that Michael is no longer of our concern. I'm here about Lincoln."

Confused, "Lincoln...who's already back at Fox River?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Well, it's come to my attention that a certain lawyer of his is trying to get him a new trial."

"That's right...but so? That's his right if she has enough evidence."

Nodding, "You're right, absolutely. If she finds enough evidence to grant him a new trial, he could get one, and potentially go free."

"So what's the problem?"

Leaning back, "I can't let that happen; for reasons that are...irrelevant for this conversation, but Lincoln can't be exonerated. I can't let that happen," he reiterated.

"If he's innocent, why shouldn't he be allowed a trial? Allowed to go free?"

Irritated, "Maybe I wasn't clear before, but my reasons are none of your concern. This is a warning; you and the lawyer need to back off or there will be consequences."

"We've done nothing wrong."

Mahone seemed to consider that for a moment, and a look of pain passed through his eyes. Aldo didn't know what to make of that; the source of his pain being unclear, but the brief expression was a mix resembling sympathy and maybe even regret.

Mahone stood up and headed towards the door, he met his eyes and replied, "That doesn't matter. Stay away," and slammed the door behind him.

XXXXXX

It was Friday afternoon as Michael left work, another day under his belt. He had the weekend off and planned on spending it looking for an apartment; not something he was particularly looking forward to, but it was necessary.

He got back to the hotel and pulled out his phone and typed, "Hey, how's your day going?"

Sara replied after a minute, "I had to lie about you today."

His heart rate quickened, "Umm. Why?"

"Katie said I had a glow. I had to tell her I met a handsome stranger in Miami."

He actually laughed out loud, then sarcastically, "Are you implying that I'm NOT handsome?"

A quick reply, "Never. But you aren't a stranger."

Nope, they weren't strangers anymore, and he was really glad about that.

They chatted a bit more as he settled in for the night, ordering take-out from a restaurant this time. Life was starting to feel more normal again; he had a job, a woman he loved, and the task of finding a place to call home- even if it was just temporary.

A few hours later he was in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. The only loose end now was Lincoln, and a wave of sadness came over him thinking about his brother being stuck in solitary. Here he was, living it up in the sunshine, eating take out and chatting with Sara while Lincoln was back to where he started.

His mind wandered back to their father, hoping that he'd make good on his word. If not, they didn't really have a Plan B.

The thought terrified him.

What the hell was he doing? An urgent panic came over him; Sara had informed him earlier that Lincoln only had three weeks. He needed a back-up plan, or at the very least to know what was going on with Veronica and Aldo as soon as possible. Were they making progress? They still needed more than Aldo's confession to prove Lincoln's innocence. They needed, well…proof.

He'd already said goodnight to Sara and didn't want to bother her, but he knew that he needed some kind of outlet for his worrying thoughts. He went back and forth in his mind for five minutes, but finally couldn't help himself and dialed her number.

She answered, groggy, "Hey, everything ok?"

"Yea, sorry if I woke you up, I just-"

"No, it's fine," her voice was more worried now, "what's wrong?"

"Uh," now he felt silly for calling, but had to follow through, "just worried about Lincoln. What if it all goes wrong; if dad doesn't confess, if they can't find enough evidence, I just…I'm here living a normal life. And he might be executed in three weeks."

After a moment, "What can I do to help?"

A weight lifted off his chest just hearing those words, "Can you talk to Veronica again? Maybe give her my number here? I just…feel out of touch. Everyone involved in this thing is in Chicago and I'm…here."

"Of course I will. I'll call her tomorrow- we'll figure this out."

He managed a quiet, "Thank you."

Softly, "I love you. Now try to get some sleep."

"Love you too."

XXXXX

"Where have you been, Alex?" Kim questioned Mahone as he arrived back at the F.B.I building, strolling towards his office.

Breezily, "Out in the field, remember what that's like?"

A smug smirk, "Out in the field doing…what exactly?"

He stopped walking and faced him squarely, a file in his right hand, "Following leads."

"Leads on-?"

"-Lincoln Burrows. That is what you assigned me to do, isn't it?"

Unwavering, "Any progress to report?"

Mahone grew irritated, he didn't have time for this. And he wanted to smack the smug grin right off Kim's face, "I'm making progress, but none to report."

Firmly, "I see you had a camera installed across from Ms. Donovan's office. Is there something I need to know?"

"No," he replied flatly, even more annoyed that Kim was spying on him.

Sighing, "It's not a good idea to hide things from me, Alex."

He stood his ground, "If there's anything you need to know, I'll tell you, but until then just let me do my job."

He paused, and they sized each other up, "Just get it done, Alex."

He sighed, "Then stop getting in my way," he turned towards his office, "if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do."

XXXXX

Veronica was walking out of the gym with a sheen of sweat, feeling better than she had in weeks. The stress and endless sitting of her office job had been taking its toll; a stiff neck, a sore back…the general feeling of life draining out of her with each passing day.

That morning she'd ordered herself to get to the gym, no matter what, and held herself to it. She'd stretched, lifted some weights, and finished it out with a nice run that left her with a natural high she'd forgotten all about.

She needed to do this more often.

The drive home was fairly short, and her mind wandered along the way. She'd started gathering evidence, or rather, taking everything she'd learned since Lincoln had been arrested and compiling it. Next time she met with Aldo she hoped to have a concise file to give him, figuring he wouldn't appreciate having to sort through the massive array of papers in her work bag.

She was messy when she worked; organizing things in a way that made sense to her but probably no one else. Now she just had to clean up what she had and make it more presentable.

Parking her car, she grabbed her gym bag and her bag from work and slung them over her shoulder, walking up to her building. She dug a hand deep into her gym bag and found her key ring, fiddling with them until she found the right one.

She went to stick the key in the door and realized it was cracked open. Her heart rate quickened immediately, and she slowed her movements, not wanting to make a sound.

It's probably no big deal. It's nothing, she told herself, but that didn't stop her from grabbing her cell phone from her bag and sticking it securely into the side pocket of her leggings. She set both bags down on the ground outside her apartment, wanting to be ready to run if she had to, and slowly pushed the door open.

Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't win any organization awards, but stepping into her apartment now, it was a mess. Papers everywhere, pillows thrown off the couch, kitchen cabinets open…

"Hello?" she yelled, hoping for no response but also wanting the coward responsible to show their face.

"Hello?" she called again.

No response.

She gingerly ventured further into the apartment, checking each room one by one.

No one was there.

She sighed, willed her heart to slow down and returned to the door to grab her bags. She brought them inside and locked the door behind her, once again surveying the damage around her.

Was it just a simple robbery? All of her electronics were still there, and she didn't really have any other valuables in the house- not much cash, no expensive jewelry or anything like that…

She wandered around and started tidying up, still shook by the whole thing. They must have been after her files, right? There was no other explanation. But who exactly had come looking for them?

Her mind flashed back to Hale, the one Company agent she actually knew by name, and the one who'd given his life trying to give her the list of names of everyone involved in framing Lincoln. What she wouldn't give to get her hands on that list, but she knew that the chance of getting it back was basically zero.

The Company was such an abstract concept in her mind; a group of people who work together towards a common goal, but she didn't know their names. She didn't know who they were…she knew some of them were law enforcement which was unsettling to say the least. Hell, if she'd called 9-1-1, the person showing up to "help" her could have been The Company agent who'd broken in in the first place.

The thought had her stomach in knots.

But there was one agent she could rely on. She slid her hand into her pocket and pulled out her phone, calling Aldo.

"Hey," he answered.

"Hey, umm," she started, realizing her voice was shaking.

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately, "are you ok?"

"Yea I'm fine I just…someone broke into my apartment."

"But you're ok?" he asked again.

"Yea, I wasn't home," she replied, already feeling a bit better having someone to talk to.

"Did they get anything?"

"I don't think so," she replied, glancing around her apartment again as they chatted, "and don't worry, they couldn't have gotten any of the evidence, I keep it in my work bag, so there's no chance-"

"-that's not my concern at all, Veronica. I'm worried about your safety. These are not people to mess with. If they came looking once and didn't get what they wanted, they'll be back."

This conversation suddenly wasn't making her feel better anymore, "So what do I do?"

He blew out a sigh, "Honestly, I don't think you should stay there. And you probably shouldn't be alone. Do you have any friends you could stay with? Just temporarily. As soon as this whole thing is over in a few weeks you could move back…"

Her mind went to Sara, her only close friend at the moment who also knew about their situation. But she didn't want to impose, "Hey, mind if I crash with you for a few weeks? Oh, and there's a chance that dangerous men with guns might come by and kill us."

"Veronica?"

"Sorry, still here," she thought a moment, realizing it was her best option. She did not want to spend weeks in a hotel, and honestly, she didn't want to be alone, "yea I have someone I can ask."

"Good, and we can meet up again soon."

She nodded, "Sounds good, I was going to organize everything tonight."

"No, you don't need to do that tonight. Don't stress yourself out."

She insisted, "It's ok, trust me, I'd rather keep myself occupied."

"Alright then," he sighed, "take care of yourself, ok? Call any time if you need something."

"Thank you, and I will."

XXXXX

It was around eight at night and Sara was in sweatpants, comfortably curled up on her couch. She sipped on a mug of hot tea and watched the movie that was on with detached interest; she'd seen it a dozen times, so it was really just a comfortable background noise for her thoughts.

She'd texted with Michael briefly that night, and he seemed to be doing ok. Physically, he was doing remarkably well. Mentally, he was sharp as ever, talking passionately about his work and the progress they were making. It was the emotional side she was worried about. He tried to hide it, but she could tell that he was conflicted. The excitement in his voice when he talked about his work would be there one minute, and then be noticeably dampened the next. She knew that he felt guilty; having a good job and freedom again while Lincoln was on death row, but she was glad that the work he was doing seemed to be distracting him well enough during the day.

Her phone went off next to her and she slowly reached over thinking it was just a text, but then realized it was a call from Veronica.

"Hey," she answered, setting her mug down on the coffee table.

"Hey, uhh," Veronica started, and Sara could feel that something was off.

"Everything ok?"

"Not exactly. I mean, I'm ok but someone broke into my apartment."

"Oh my God, did they take anything?"

"No. Trashed the place pretty good, but nothing is gone as far as I can tell...and I have a feeling I know what they were looking for."

Understanding, "The files on Lincoln's case."

"You got it."

"You had them with you?"

"Yeah, in my work bag."

She stood up and started pacing back and forth around the kitchen, "Do you need anything? Help putting your apartment back together, or-"

"-Yea, that's actually why I called," Sara could hear the hesitation in her voice, "you can definitely say no…but is there any chance I could stay with you for a while? I'm an easy roommate I swear I just...don't want to be here right now. Or alone."

Sara's heart went out to her, "Of course you can stay with me. Whenever you want to head over just do it and make yourself at home."

Veronica sighed in relief, "Thank you. So much, seriously."

"Oh, are you kidding? Don't worry about it, as long as you don't mind sleeping on the couch-"

"-not at all. Anything is better than staying here, there's no way I'd be able to get any sleep."

"Yea, I get that."

"Alright, well, if you're sure I guess I'll pack a bag or two and head over now."

"Sounds good, I'll be here."

She paused a moment, and Sara could still hear a slight tremble in her voice, "Thank you."


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: Hope you're all still liking this story! The necklace in this chapter is referring to the one Sara wears in season 5 - I just like the idea that Michael gave it to her ;) As always, feel free to leave reviews!

XXXXX

The movie that Sara been watching was over and she'd turned off the T.V., opting for a book instead. It was getting late and she let out a big yawn, feeling the effects of her early morning and a long day at work. She'd only made it through half of a chapter when the pages in front of her started to drift in and out of focus, her eyes tired. After re-reading the same paragraph four times, she tore her eyes away from the book and glanced at the clock on the wall, realizing it had been an hour and a half since Veronica called. She didn't want to worry, but she figured a quick text wouldn't hurt to make sure she was ok.

Just as she grabbed her phone, there was a knock on her door. She set her book down and got up to go get it, feeling the stiffness in her legs from being curled up so long. She looked through the peep hole and saw Veronica.

"Hey," she greeted, opening the door.

"Hey," Veronica smiled almost shyly as she entered, dropping two bags on the floor in the entryway and giving Sara a hug, "thank you so much for letting me stay."

"Happy to have you," she replied, "been kinda lonely around here anyways."

Veronica nodded, empathizing, "I know the feeling. Once you get used to having someone around, it's hard to get used to being alone."

Her voice trailed off at the end and it hit Sara again how hard this all must be for Veronica. Even though she and Lincoln weren't technically together anymore, they had been at one point, and they'd obviously left on decent enough terms for her to still care about him and want to help. She wondered about their relationship before all this; how long they'd been together, had they lived together or was she referring to someone else? She shook off the questions, knowing there would be a better time and place to dive into that.

"It really is," she replied honestly, "still can't say I'm used to it…which is weird considering I've lived alone since medical school."

She shook her head knowingly, "Doesn't seem to matter once you get used to someone's company. Going back to "normal" never really feels normal anymore."

Sara nodded silently, agreeing. It didn't seem to matter if she was at home or at work, there was always a piece missing.

Veronica changed the subject, "But he's doing ok still?"

She gave a nod, "Far as I can tell, yea. Upset about Lincoln of course."

"Aren't we all," she replied sadly, "but that's what all this is for," she gestured to her work bag, which was leaning against the wall.

Sara glanced down at the bag, stuffed to the gills with papers, "Do you want help sorting through that?"

A look of utter relief passed through Veronica's green eye before she made her expression more neutral, "Oh no, I couldn't ask you to do that…I mean, I've made a hell of a mess for myself."

Sara laughed, "I don't mind at all, come on. Bring it over here and we can at least get started tonight."

"You sure? It's kind of late."

Sara shrugged, "I'm up for it if you are, and I don't work tomorrow." It was Friday night, but she didn't want to assume Veronica's schedule and asked, "Do you?"

She shook her head, "Nope, I've got the whole weekend set aside for this."

"Alright then," she sat down cross legged again on the couch, despite her legs protesting the position, and waited as Veronica hoisted the bag back onto her shoulder and set it down on the coffee table.

"Not to be too dramatic, but I think you're my hero," she joked as the papers started spilling out on the table.

Sara chuckled, "Just call me Wonder Woman."

She smiled, "Oh, before we get started, can I grab a shower?" Veronica looked down and gestured at her gym clothes.

"Yea, of course! Down the hall to the right. There's spare towels in the closet."

"Thanks," she turned and started down the hallway, gesturing vaguely to the bag," and feel free to look through whatever. Another set of eyes has gotta be a good idea."

Sara nodded and started pulling papers out, arranging them so the they were all right side up and in line with each other. Her eyes were surprisingly not tired anymore and latched onto the information before her, curious and eager to help.

XXXXX

Michael woke up on Saturday morning in a blissful haze, peering out of half open eyes at the soft light behind the window blinds. He stretched and yawned, happy to have a day off, and then he remembered he had to look for an apartment and groaned in resentment. That task would be a lot more fun if he didn't have to do it alone.

He sighed and wished Sara could be there too…it would be way more enjoyable that way and wouldn't feel like such a chore. Besides, he wanted her opinion too. Not because it would be his forever home, but he wanted to see what she liked and disliked, and what her tastes were. He needed to start filing away little tidbits like that in case some day they bought a house together. They hadn't talked about that specifically, but they had agreed that long term sounded like a good idea, and usually buying a house together is part of that package.

With that possibility of a happier future in his mind, he got out of bed, rubbed his eyes a bit, and started getting dressed. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a simple gray t-shirt, enjoying the softer, more comfortable feel for the day.

He grabbed his wallet and room key and headed out the door, knowing he had an even more important errand to run before he started apartment hunting; finding a new necklace for Sara. She hadn't mentioned finding her old one, but even if she did find it, he wanted to get her a new one anyways. He wanted to buy her something special and he wasn't going to let that chance slide, especially now that he had a good excuse to…not that he needed one, but it made him feel better about it for some reason.

Her doubt in his ability to succeed made the challenge even more fun, and he was feeling confident as he strode into a jewelry store and started looking around. He took in all the different shapes and sizes and colors to pick from and was shocked by the lack of reaction in his mind. Before his surgery, wandering into a store like that would have been completely overwhelming, sending his mind into overdrive. He'd process so many variables at once that it would have paralyzed him, but that wasn't the case anymore.

Display after display, he wandered around slowly and methodically, checking each piece with mild interest. He'd always had good taste in such things and realized with a hint of discomfort that he owed that to Christina. She was always tastefully dressed and accessorized, and he remembered being dragged around clothing and jewelry stores as a kid-probably whining and dragging his feet, but she eventually managed to peak his interest in it by explaining to him the colors and designs and how they best fit together. She had a good eye and it must have rubbed off on him at some point. He didn't like acknowledging some of the good she'd done for him; his reaction to her existence was still a negative one, full of feelings of betrayal and abandonment. But it was times like these when a random memory popped up that he couldn't help but think back on the good old days – he and Lincoln and mom all together, doing things that normal families did.

"Anything I can help you find?" a salesman asked him, pulling him out of his thoughts.

Michael looked up from the case in front of him, "I'm just looking for now, thank you."

"Alright," the salesman shrugged, "just let me know if you need anything."

"Will do," he replied just as something caught his eye. He moved over to the right in front of a different case and knew he'd found what he needed. It was a delicate necklace, a slim gold chain with a black tusk pendant hanging from it. He looked at it from different angles, tilting his head side to side. The size was perfect- not too big, and it was simple. He knew the color would suit her, considering that the necklace she'd lost was black as well.

The salesman sensed his interest and came back over, "Find something you like?"

"I think so," he replied, pointing to the necklace.

"A beautiful piece for sure," the salesman agreed, "need some time to think or?"

He shook his head, "Nope, this is the one."

XXXXX

Veronica woke up on her back and blinked her eyes slowly. It took her a moment to remember where she was; that brief moment of panic before the feeling of safety returned, remembering that she was at Sara's apartment. She stretched and curled over onto her side, burrowing deeper under the blanket, hoping to go back to sleep.

Her mind had other ideas, and slowly but surely started tossing tidbits into her awareness about Lincoln's case, reminding her of the work that needed to be done in the day ahead. She reached an arm out of the blankets and grabbed her phone off the coffee table to check the time. It was only 5:30.

She sighed, knowing she wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, and might as well do something useful.

Careful not to wake up her host, she slipped on a soft pair of jeans and a sweater, put her shoes on, and grabbed her purse.

There was a bakery a few blocks down and she figured it was the least she could do to repay Sara for letting her stay. Aldo was coming by later that morning to get a run-down of Lincoln's case, and this way Sara wouldn't have to worry about feeding everybody.

Her hope was that she and Sara would have time to organize and sort through everything a bit more, so that she could present it all to Aldo as concisely and clearly as possible. They'd made quite a bit of progress the night before and didn't go to bed until almost midnight…she was going to need some serious coffee and sugar to power her through the day. Hence the bakery run at the crack of dawn.

The smell as she opened the door about killed her as she walked up to the counter and ordered a dozen, assorted. She paid the young lady behind the counter and tucked the box under her arm, heading back.

When she got back to Sara's apartment, she opened the door softly and tip-toed in, only to be welcomed by the smell of brewing coffee.

"Morning," Sara greeted from the kitchen.

"Hey," she replied, slipping off her shoes, "sorry did I wake you up?"

She waved a hand, "No, not at all. I'm an early riser…can't seem to ever sleep in much past six."

Commiserating, "Same here. I got breakfast," she held up the box and set it on the counter.

"I'll never say no to that," Sara replied eagerly, grabbing her mug of coffee and snatching a donut from the box, "there's coffee if you want some."

"I'd love some," she found a mug and poured herself a cup, grabbing herself a donut and joining Sara over by the couch. She set her mug on the table and sat on the floor, spreading out a bunch of papers in front of her on the floor.

Sara sat on the couch and already had papers in hand, and a binder at her side, "Thought this might come in handy," she gestured to the binder.

Veronica laughed, "I guess that might be a good idea. Can't say I've had the time to even think about organizing this stuff." She sipped from her mug and closed her eyes in pleasure, realizing she wasn't surprised at all that Sara had good taste in coffee.

The chatted and organized for several hours. The conversation drifted from serious topics; the case they were working on, ethical issues surrounding the death penalty, politics…to lighter fare – Veronica growing up with the brothers, Sara's interesting and often hilarious stories from her short stay as an E.R. doctor…it was comfortable. Their opinions were similar enough that they got along really well, and any differing opinions were respectfully discussed and never left her with a bitter taste. It was something she didn't experience often as a lawyer; agreeing to disagree and moving on, respecting each other almost more for having a healthy debate with no need to convince or one-up.

A knock on Sara's door had both her and Veronica startled and looking up.

Veronica had just poured herself another mug when the knock came and since she was already standing, she headed towards the door, "That must be him."

She checked the peephole to be sure and opened the door, letting Aldo in.

"Hey, thanks for coming," she gestured as she backed up.

"Hey Veronica, oh-," he stopped as he saw Sara, who was seated on the couch with the binder on her lap.

"It's ok," Veronica assured, "she knows everything. She's the doctor at Fox River, and she's been helping us for a while now."

Looking a bit surprised, but delighted, he made it way over to Sara. She stood up as he extended a hand, "Aldo Burrows, pleasure to meet you."

She shook his hand firmly, "Sara Tancredi, nice to meet you."

Veronica could practically see the light bulb go on as he tilted his head, "Tancredi?"

Sara laughed softly and lowered her gaze, "Uh, yea."

"Related to-?"

Hesitantly, "-Yea, I'm his daughter."

Aldo's eyes widened slightly.

"But don't worry," she continued quickly, "I don't share my father's political views."

Aldo exhaled, recovering to a more neutral expression, "Glad to hear it."

"So," Sara continued, changing the subject, "can I get you anything? Coffee?"

"That'd be great, thank you."

Veronica watched their interactions, trying to hide her smile as she realized Sara was doing the whole, "meet the parents," thing despite the fact that Michael wasn't there, and Aldo didn't know that she was dating his son.

Still trying to suppress a grin, Veronica followed Sara into the kitchen as Aldo took a seat in a chair across from the couch, "So," she drawled out, and Sara looked up from the mug she was pouring, "first impressions of the father-in-law?"

Sara rolled her eyes and smiled, "Oh come on, we're not doing this right now."

Veronica shrugged innocently, "I'm just saying, what would be the harm in him knowing that you and Michael are together?"

Sara set the coffee pot down and grabbed the mug for Aldo, "I think that should be Michael's decision, not mine, and we have a lot of work to do today."

Veronica huffed dramatically but still grinning, "Ok fine. I won't tell," she promised as she mimed zipping her lips. Sara laughed and playfully nudged her arm. It made Veronica happy, having a friend who she could joke around with and work together on some pretty heavy stuff. Sharing an apartment even for one night already had her feeling right at home.

They walked back over, and Sara handed him his coffee.

He nodded politely, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she replied, sitting down on the couch.

Veronica sank down into the couch next to her, the two of them now facing Aldo.

"So, I don't really know where to start," Veronica admitted.

"Well, how about from the beginning, lay it all out for me," Aldo prompted, getting comfortable in his chair and sipping his coffee.

Veronica sighed, "Ok, the short version is stuff you already know: Lincoln was framed. Steadman isn't even dead, and we have a small amount of evidence to support that claim."

"What's the evidence?"

"Well," she paused, "the strongest lead I had was his dental records, but the body that was supposedly Steadman was buried in a very eco-friendly way meaning-"

"-lots of decomp."

She nodded, "That's right, which of course makes it a lot harder, but dental records are still useful even after a lot of decomposition. We hoped that the dental records of the body wouldn't match those that Steadman had on file…but-"

"I bet they were a perfect match."

"They were."

Aldo shook his head, "I'm not surprised. They sure know how to cover all bases," he paused a moment, "what else?"

"I mean, my first lead was an appendectomy he had when he was a kid. The morgue noted the appendix being present during autopsy, but obviously we can't confirm that anymore since the body was decomposed."

"Right," he agreed flatly.

"So where do we go from here?" she huffed in frustration, "I mean…in the beginning, I was trying to prove who really did it. You know, find who's guilty, and prove that Lincoln is innocent. But we can't do that. No one murdered Steadman. Which, as far as I can tell, means we have to prove that he's alive. But how do we do that?"

After a moment, Sara chimed in, "How does someone manage to stay completely off the grid in today's world? I mean, he's gotta have a cell phone, computer…some kind of digital footprint."

Aldo replied, "If they got him a new identity he could be using his phone and internet all the time, but we'd never be able to connect the dots."

"But what would be the point of getting him a new identity? Why would The Company do that?" Sara asked, "I don't know much about the Ecofield scandal, but wouldn't it have been easier to actually kill him?"

"She wouldn't have allowed it."

"Who?" Sara and Veronica asked simultaneously.

"His sister, Caroline Reynolds."

Veronica was intrigued now, "Why?"

Aldo sighed and set his mug down on the table, "They were close. Really close from what I hear. Her position within both the government and The Company put her in a tough spot when the scandal came to light. If The Company had their way I bet he would have been killed. But I mean…most people don't want their sibling to be killed for political reasons no matter how corrupt they are. She must have convinced The Company to spare his life, and they would have demanded that he go into hiding."

Sara replied slowly, "Reynolds has ties to The Company? The Vice President…?"

Aldo nodded tiredly.

Sara leaned forward, resting elbows on knees, "I kind of suspected it before, but I didn't know for sure that it ran that deep or that…high up."

"I'm afraid it does."

Shaking it off, Veronica tried to tie everything together, "So basically, Steadman is alive but The Company doesn't want anyone to find out, and with The Company being so well infiltrated into the government, we have no shot at finding proof."

They all went silent.

After a moment, Sara spoke up, "What about their relationship?"

Aldo questioned, "What about it?"

"If she and her brother are that close, wouldn't they have contacted each other? I mean, he's supposed to have been dead for a long time, but do you really think she wouldn't have reached out? Even once?"

They both contemplated, and Veronica replied, "Couldn't hurt to look into."

Aldo asked, "Can you get your hands on her phone records? Might be kind of tough considering who she is…"

"I'm damn well gonna try," she replied, growing antsier by the minute to start tracking down those records.

Sara nodded and sat up straighter, "Right, I mean, it might be hard to trace, but if there's an unknown number, or a number that only started showing up on her records after Steadman was supposedly killed…"

Aldo asked optimistically, "When can you start?

"Well, it's Saturday, but I can go into the office tonight or tomorrow to get the paperwork started."

He nodded, "The sooner the better."

XXXXX

After touring a few places, Michael found a two-bedroom apartment that was available, clean, and within his price range. He started the paperwork and went back to the hotel, waiting for the leasing office to process everything, but otherwise he was all set and ready to move in the following week.

The only downside was that it was on the other side of town, which meant he'd need to get a car too, abandoning the "walking everywhere" lifestyle that he'd come to enjoy, but that was ok. It was a small price to pay considering he'd been living in a hotel without a kitchen. Take out was great and all, but it was starting to get old.

He took a walk out to the balcony and checked the time. It was around 3pm, and since Sara was off, he figured he'd give her a call.

It rang a few times before she answered, "Hey!"

"Hey, just wanted to check in. How's everything going?"

He heard a woman's voice in the background ask, "Who is it?" and Sara's muffled, "Michael."

"Sorry…uh, do you have company?" he asked.

"Yea, it's just Veronica. She's staying with me for a while."

Hesitantly, "Oh?"

"Yea uh," her voice grew more serious, "someone broke into her apartment the other day, so she's staying here for now. Until everything is cleared up."

A wave of worry came over him, "Is she ok?"

"She's fine…shaken up a bit, but fine. And they didn't get anything. We're obviously thinking they were after Lincoln's files, but she had them with her at work."

He was still a bit stunned, and could only manage a, "That's good."

Sara breezed on, "So, she's here safe with me, and we've spent most of the day sorting through and organizing evidence…" her tone indicated there was something else she wanted to say.

"What?" he prompted.

"And…your dad stopped by earlier."

His heart stopped, then began thudding wildly in his chest, "He came to your apartment?"

"Mhmm," she replied calmly, "he needed to talk to Veronica and see what she had."

"And was it…ok?" he asked nervously.

"Yea it was fine. We all had coffee and chatted a bit, mostly about Lincoln's case."

He almost didn't want to ask, "Mostly?"

She chuckled, obviously enjoying this, "I didn't ask him for any embarrassing baby Michael stories," after a moment, "I didn't tell him we were together. I figured I'd leave that up to you."

He breathed a sigh of relief, then realized how ridiculous he was being, "You could have told him if you wanted, and you still could. I'm sure he loved you I just…I still don't know if I can trust him and him being there when I'm not I just-"

"-I get it," she reassured, "that's why I just let him think I'm the prison doc for now."

He sighed, "I just want to make sure you're safe. You and Veronica."

"He seems genuine. And I know I don't have the whole history with him that you do, but from what I saw today he's willing to share what he knows and really wants to see this thing taken care of."

He felt slightly reassured, "Good, that's…that's good," he paused a moment and remembered to ask, "did you guys make any progress on Lincoln's case?"

"We have an idea, but nothing solid yet."

"What's the idea?" he asked eagerly, desperate to have something tangible to hold onto.

"Caroline Reynolds, you know-Steadman's sister?"

"Right."

"Apparently they had a close relationship and she wouldn't let The Company kill him to cover up the scandal. So, they faked his murder to keep both parties happy. We're thinking since they were so close, she's called him since his supposed murder. Some unknown name or number that we can trace back. It's a long shot but-"

"-it's a good idea," he cut in.

Skeptical, "Yea?"

"Best one I've heard in a while. Physical evidence is looking like a dead end, so finding an electronic footprint of some kind might be the best bet. Since she's the Vice President, her phone calls might even be recorded."

"That sounds too good to be true."

"It might be, but this…this is good," he replied with some genuine hope.

XXXXX

Mahone sat in his office, frustrated. Kim had been hovering and micromanaging which was something that bothered him to no end. That and the fact that his little raid of Veronica's apartment had left him empty handed.

He wasn't terribly surprised that she'd left no evidence or files at home; it was his suspicion that she was smarter than that and finding nothing of value had proven him correct. She must keep it on her or at her office at the law firm.

He leaned back and clicked the pen in his hand absentmindedly, looking out of his office into the rest of the building. It was late, and few people were still there. The occasional phone ringing and keyboard clacking was oddly soothing, and his mind wandered.

Of course, he'd have loved to find whatever evidence she had that could exonerate Lincoln, but he wasn't naive. The shake down of her apartment had two goals; to potentially find evidence, and to scare her into submission. Given that she hadn't been back to her apartment since, he had to assume that the later goal had been achieved. But was she scared enough to quit?

Probably not. He didn't know her personally but based on everything he'd seen and heard so far, he highly doubted she'd just bury her head in the sand and let Lincoln die. But where did that leave him?

He remembered one of his many conversations that day with Kim:

"Any progress to report, Alex?"

"Nothing you need to know about."

His eyes narrowed, "Are you still chasing after his lawyer?"

"Yes," he'd replied flatly, leaving out the details.

"I don't need to remind you how important it is that she fails to come up with enough evidence. She needs to be stopped, no matter what it takes. You need to stop her."

"What're you saying, exactly?"

He smirked, "You know what I'm saying. Get it done, Alex."

He shuddered at the memory, his stomach sinking. Three words that never ended well. Get. It. Done.

It wasn't a choice, and that much was pretty clear. Maybe it was the long days and the late nights, the stress of it all that was getting to him, but he was starting to feel a bit lost in it all. His reasons for doing what he did every day were getting jumbled and forgotten, leaving him at the mercy of his superior who was ordering him to do some pretty unethical things. He wasn't stupid. He knew how bad it was.

The image of Oscar Shales flashed into his mind and he almost let out an audible whimper. They knew his secret, and that's the only reason he was still there, but how far would he go?

His knee jerk reply to himself was, "As far as it takes," but his internal response to that wasn't favorable. It made him feel sick. There had to be a way out.

He started toying with different ideas but came up with nothing useful. And then his mind went back to his conversation with Aldo.

Why had he been so calm? His son was on death row, and yet he seemed determined…maybe even confident, that they'd be able to get Lincoln out of it. It didn't make any sense.

Mahone clicked his pen repeatedly. Something was missing. With that puzzling notion, he realized his stomach was growling. It was well past eight o'clock and he'd forgotten to eat dinner. He gathered his few belongings and his keys and decided it was time to head home for the night, knowing full-well he wouldn't be able to keep his mind from chewing on the problem he'd found himself in the middle of.

XXXXX

"Hey, let me know when you have a minute alone," Michael texted Sara. It was 8:30 and he knew they'd spent the day trying to get a game plan, but he'd forgotten to mention something.

A reply came quickly, "Everything ok?"

"Yea, just forgot to ask you something earlier and I want you to be able to speak freely."

"Give me just a minute and I'll call."

Satisfied, he tried to busy himself for the minutes awaiting her call. He went out onto the balcony, sipped some water, made sure his laptop was plugged in…

Finally, it rang, "Hey."

"Hey, yourself," she sounded like she was walking.

"Able to get away?"

"Yea, I figured I'd go for a walk," then with humor, "less suspicious than kicking my new roommate out for an hour without an explanation."

He chuckled, "True."

"So, what's going on?"

"Well, I realized the other day…now that the date is set, I need to book a flight back to Chicago."

She waited for him to continue.

"I was gonna ask if I could stay with you, but with Veronica needing a place to stay I didn't want to be a bother-"

"-Michael, I'm gonna stop you right there."

He paused.

"There's plenty of room for all of us here if that's ok with you. You guys are old friends, so it won't be weird, and Veronica might not even be staying with me by then, I mean…it's still a few weeks away."

"Are you sure?"

Firmly, "There's no way in hell I'm letting you stay somewhere else."

That earned a smile, "Ok, uh, does it matter to you what day I fly in? I'd like to come a few days before and maybe stay a few days after…I uh-" he hesitated.

"What?" she prompted.

He sighed, "I don't want to be alone during that time. Or after. For as long as possible anyways."

Softly, "You won't be, ok? And hey, don't give up yet, we're still fighting."

"I know," he could practically picture her and Veronica, the doctor and the lawyer, spending their weekend trying to track down enough evidence to save his brother. It warmed his heart, and not just because it was the woman he loved and his childhood friend working together, but because they were risking so much and spending their very limited free time lending a hand.

"Thank you."


	25. Chapter 25

Fifteen days. The realization hit Veronica as soon as she woke up that the execution was now just a day over two weeks away. It was Sunday morning, and she woke again on Sara's couch, this time instantly aware of where she was, and feeling rested. Despite that fact that it was the weekend, she planned on heading into the office to get the paperwork started to request Caroline Reynold's phone records. If she was lucky, she might even be able to persuade a judge to sign them today.

She rummaged through her bag, which was still in Sara's entryway, and found a pair of black slacks and an emerald green button-down shirt. Sure, it was Sunday and not many people would be at the office, but she couldn't just stroll in wearing her pajamas. Plus, dressing the part made her feel more capable somehow, and more confident.

Sara woke up not long after she did. She showered and then met Veronica in the kitchen where they chatted over breakfast and coffee before Veronica headed out, eager to get a jump on things. She apologized for leaving in such a rush, and Sara assured her it was fine – she'd be spending the day running errands anyways.

With her eased conscience, she stepped out and clicked the door shut behind her, made her way to the car, and headed to the office.

The building was deserted as expected, aside from a few other dedicated souls, and she was glad- not wanting to be disturbed or distracted. She sat down in her office chair and grabbed the necessary forms, taking a moment to mentally prepare for what she was about to do. This type of request didn't fall under the umbrella of real estate law, so she was a bit out of her depth…not to mention that her clients weren't usually so high profile. But here she was, filling out a request for phone records for the Vice President of the United States.

A pang of doubt hit her as she uncapped her pen. Who was she to ask for this? She could practically hear a judge laughing in her face at the request…which meant that she'd just have to pick a judge that was most likely to take her seriously. She started writing despite her nagging doubts; she had to try.

XXXXX

Sara was already at the end of her rope, and it was only nine in the morning. The day had started off well enough – a relaxing shower and lazy morning chatting with Veronica before she headed into work, but had only taken a turn for the worse since then.

She could have taken the whole weekend off; in fact, she'd intended on spending the day running errands, but decided she'd rather spend it at work in the hopes that it would distract more effectively. Since she was the only Doctor at Fox River, there was always plenty she could do if she decided to come in…like updating charts, which is what she was trying to do but her computer was being slow. It was starting to piss her off.

She could feel the anxiety building as she waited for the computer to do something useful. After at least five agonizing minutes of nothingness, she decided it wasn't worth it. With a big exhale, she leaned back and tried to figure out what was really bothering her. It didn't take long.

Lingering in the back of her mind all morning was her phone call with Michael. She was excited at the prospect of seeing him in a few weeks, but the circumstances were about as bad as they could get.

Yesterday had sparked some hope for all of them; a fresh lead and a sense of urgency, a sense that they had a chance, but what if they couldn't get enough evidence in time and Lincoln was actually executed? Michael would break, and she'd have to be there to get him through it. That part didn't bother her; she could be as present and supportive as he needed her to be, but his time to grieve would be limited. He had a job to get back to.

But would he even go back to work at The Company? The people behind the execution? That might be the last straw for him, causing him to go back on his deal with Christina…but that would leave him in a bad situation. They'd probably undo his pardon with ease and he'd be back in prison.

She glanced up again at her computer, which was still loading, and felt helpless. And impatient. Everything was happening too fast and not fast enough all at the same time. Maybe Veronica was having a better day than she was. Her cell was next to her keyboard and she almost texted her but decided not to; hopefully Veronica was actually working and getting something done…she didn't want to be the one distracting her.

Sara grabbed the clipboard and saw that Lincoln was scheduled for his weekly physical tomorrow. Without thinking, she grabbed the phone and dialed, requesting that his physical be done today instead. Within a few minutes, Lincoln was on his way up and being escorted through her door.

"Good morning, Lincoln," Sara greeted as he sat down on the exam table.

He nodded, "Sara."

"How are you?" she asked, stopping in front of him.

He paused a moment, rubbing the short stubble on his head, "Fine."

Skeptically, "Mhmm."

"How's Michael?"

Slowly, "He's good, but worried about you."

"And Veronica?"

After a moment, "The same," then she remembered that he didn't know about the break in, "but there's something you should know."

"What?" he looked worried now.

"Someone broke into her apartment."

His eyes widened.

"She wasn't home when it happened and they didn't take anything but-"

"-is she ok?"

Calmly with a nod, "She's fine, staying with me for now."

After a moment, "Did they find who did it?"

Shaking her head, "I don't think Veronica even reported it. If it was a Company agent who broke in, with so many of them in law enforcement we couldn't trust whoever might be sent to investigate."

He rolled his eyes slightly, "Guess that's true."

She started checking his heart and lungs, going through the weekly physical he apparently needed before he could be executed. The whole process still baffled her, but it wasn't her place to question those policies...and in this case, it worked to their advantage, allowing them to visit each other without having to come up with a valid reason.

"We might have a lead on Steadman," Sara ventured.

He perked up slightly, "What is it?"

"We're hoping to get ahold of Reynold's phone records."

He was listening closely now.

"I guess she and Steadman were close – so close that it would be hard for them to not contact each other since he was supposedly killed. If we get her phone records there might be a number that started showing up after his supposed murder. If we can trace it-"

"-that's kinda thin," he interjected.

She startled and looked up at him, feeling slightly defensive, "we realize it isn't the best lead in the world but…it's better than nothing."

He stayed silent, looking down and lost in thought. After a moment, "What does Michael think?"

She remembered their last phone call and the hope in Michael's voice, his enthusiasm, and replied honestly, "He thinks it's a good idea."

After considering for a minute, "Ok."

She tried a different approach, "Have you talked to him at all since you've been back? I'm sure he'd love to hear from you-"

Shaking his head, "Nah he's probably sick of me. Sick of all the problems I cause," his voice faded.

Sara took a good, hard look at the man in front of her. His face seemed a bit drawn, his posture slumped. He avoided eye contact most of the time. He might as well have pulled a white flag out of his pocket and started waving it in the air. This wasn't who he was, and he needed a slap in the face.

Bluntly, "Lincoln, that's the biggest lie I've ever heard. And self-pity doesn't suit you."

He met her gaze now, subdued surprise in his eyes, "No it's…" he shook his head and brushed a hand over it again.

More gently, "Just get through these next few days. Once we have anything more than just your father's word, he'll confess, and we'll have something ready to back-up his claims."

He nodded slightly.

She put a hand on his forearm and met his gaze, "And for the record, Michael asks about you all the time…he hates that you're in here."

He nodded again, a bit more convinced. If she were in Lincoln's position, she'd probably be feeling defeated too. Only getting an update once a week, maybe twice at best, and having endless free time where her mind could wander and over-analyze everything…

She didn't want to overshare Michael's feelings, but she had to toss Lincoln something to reassure him he wasn't forgotten. Michael does hate that Lincoln is back at Fox River and is more than a little torn up about it, feeling helpless himself. But, he'd shared the depth of his feelings with her in confidence, and she didn't want to pass that along to Lincoln without permission.

Katie popped her head in, "Sara, we need some help out here," gesturing behind her to an inmate on a gurney.

"Ok, uh," she looked back to Lincoln with sympathy, "we'll talk again soon."

XXXXX

General Krantz sat behind his monster of an oak desk, feeling the afternoon sun on his face. The air conditioning was usually a blessing in the relentless Miami heat and humidity, but sometimes the chill in the air was a bit much for him, and the sun was a pleasant guest coming through his window.

He had a meeting scheduled with Henry, the head of the Bargain team, in a few minutes to discuss their progress. There were several buyers already interested in Scylla, and he hoped to gain more information about the time line. The buyers wanted it as soon as possible, offering monetary incentives for them to finish faster. As much as he'd love to move the timeline up, he didn't have that power; it was up the engineers, really, which is why he wanted to speak with Henry.

There was a knock at the door and one of his guards spoke, "General, Henry is here to see you."

"Send him in."

The door opened, and Henry walked in, approaching his desk with a polite nod, "General."

"Henry, thank you for stopping by," he started, "please, have a seat."

Henry sat down in the comfortable leather chair across from the General, "My pleasure, sir. So, what's this about?"

Krantz leaned forward, "I was hoping to get an estimation on when Scylla might be completed. As I'm sure you know, there are several interested parties who'd like to get their hands on it…as soon as possible."

Henry nodded enthusiastically, "Of course, sir, and we've been making great progress, especially in the last week or so."

He tilted his head, "And why is that?"

Henry looked surprised, confused that Krantz didn't understand, "Scofield, sir. He's been invaluable these past few days – coming up with solutions for problems we've had from the get-go."

"I see," he took a moment to process, "well, I'm glad to hear it. Does this mean you're expecting Scylla to be completed soon?"

"We certainly hope so. I'm afraid it's rather difficult to nail down an exact time line given that there are so many variables…but if I had to venture a guess, I'd say it'll be in its final stages within the next month or so."

Pleasantly surprised, "That fast?"

Nodding, "Yes sir, like I said…Scofield has helped tremendously."

Krantz pondered for a moment, "And what will he be working on next?"

Henry blinked a few times, "Nothing, at least- it's my understanding that when he's finished with the Bargain theory his contract with us is over. That was part of his deal with Christina."

"I see," he replied, when he was really thinking, "that won't do."

"Thank you again for stopping by, Henry. That will be all."

He nodded and got up to leave, "Thank you, sir."

XXXXX

It was eleven o'clock and Veronica was ready to leave the office. She'd filled out the necessary forms to request the phone records and did a bit of housekeeping work for her other cases while she was there. The day was still young, and she was severely impatient at the thought of waiting until the next morning to ask a judge to sign off on her request. Luckily for her, there was a judge she knew decently well (enough to be invited to his home for a regular, monthly poker game) and she decided to pay him a visit. That's what connections were for, right? What help was it cultivating relationships if she didn't ask for a favor every now and again – and it wasn't like she didn't have a good reason. The clock was ticking, and she didn't want to waste a second.

Judge Davis had always been a favorite of hers. He was in his sixties, had a kind face and a gentle voice. He'd always shown her professional respect, but also had a fatherly sort of relationship with her; it was like he'd always seen her potential and knew just how to push her to be a little bit better. She'd missed last month's poker game because of everything going on, and was actually looking forward to speaking with him.

She walked past his perfectly manicured front lawn, around the water fountain in the center of the driveway, and up the steps of his Victorian home. It was odd being at his home alone- normally there were cars lined up around the whole driveway. He was a great host, providing drinks and delicious food for poker nights. But the yard in day time was beautiful too, it just had a different feel.

She rang the doorbell.

After a moment, the door opened, "Veronica, hi," he greeted with a smile, but looking somewhat surprised.

"Judge Davis, hi," she replied.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked.

She didn't hesitate, "A favor. Mind if I come in? It shouldn't take long."

The kind, older man backed up and allowed her to enter, "By all means."

"Thank you," she replied she re-adjusted the strap on her shoulder and followed him into the living room. It was open and bright with big glass windows and high ceilings. He sat down in an easy chair and she took a seat on the couch facing him.

She started, "I'm sorry to bother you on a Sunday-"

"-nonsense," he interrupted with the wave of a hand, "it's good to see you. Now what can I do for you?"

She stifled a sigh, bracing herself for rejection as she pulled the papers out of her bag, "I have an urgent request here to obtain the phone records for Caroline Reynolds."

His expression remained neutral, "Why?"

"It's with regards to the Lincoln Burrows case, sir."

He sighed and shook his head, "Barking up that tree again?"

"Still," she corrected.

"The case is closed, Veronica. Not to mention the fact that he escaped a state penitentiary causing a nationwide embarrassment and-"

"-he escaped because he's innocent and didn't see another way out. But we're hoping to get him a retrial. We have," she paused, considering how much to reveal and deciding they didn't have time to mess around, "we have someone willing to come forward. What they say will be enough for a retrial, but then I'm going to need evidence to back up the claims. That's where the phone records come in."

Intrigued and with a twinkle in his eye, "And I'm guessing I shouldn't even bother asking who is coming forward and what they're going to say?"

She tried to hide a smile, "That's correct."

He grinned and waved a finger at her, "Always holding your cards close to your chest," he chuckled, "guess that's why you always beat me on poker night."

She laughed, "That and a dose of dumb luck."

"No, no, you've got skill I'll give you that. And you're determined," he thought a moment, "what is it specifically that you hope to gain from these phone records?"

"Well," she started, decided that if she couldn't trust Judge Davis, she really couldn't trust anyone, "from what evidence we have so far, we believe that Terrance Steadman isn't actually dead. It looks like they faked his death and covered it up, setting Lincoln up to take the fall."

He leaned back, fingers on his chin, "Any idea why?"

Internally, she groaned. She wasn't ready to talk about The Company yet; she knew she'd sound like a lunatic, so she decided to tip-toe around it, "We think that Reynolds has ties with a certain…organization that wanted Steadman dead. Cover up for a scandal. Since he's her brother, she wouldn't allow it. His fake death was a compromise to keep both parties happy, and we're hoping she's called him, wherever he is, since his supposed murder."

"Very interesting theory you present," he replied, somewhat lost in thought. He sat up a little straighter, "I assume you have some sort of evidence to support this claim?"

She nodded, happy he was even listening to her, "Yes. The testimony of the person I mentioned, plus some physical discrepancies between Steadman's medical records and the autopsy report."

He nodded again, eyeing her sideways, "Well, I'm intrigued. I'm inclined to open the door a crack, but only a crack. I don't need to remind you that this is a very high-profile case, and I don't want to be caught sneaking around the Vice President's records without cause."

"I assure you sir, we have evidence to back these claims. If it wasn't serious, I wouldn't be asking, and besides," she paused, "I don't think you want an innocent man executed any more than I do."

Soberly, "You're right about that," he stood up slowly and wandered to the kitchen, grabbing a pen, "let me see those papers."

XXXXX

Sara got home from work on Sunday evening and Veronica practically pounced on her as soon as she walked in.

"I got something!"

Surprised, "You got-"

"-the phone records and a solid lead," she was grinning ear to ear.

"What is it?" Sara hung her bag up and slipped her shoes off, Veronica leading her over to the couch.

Veronica grabbed a print out and showed Sara, "So this phone number started showing up around the time of the murder."

"What zip-code is that?" she asked.

"That was my first question too- it's a small town in Montana. Middle of nowhere."

"That's weird."

"Right!?" she continued, "so I called a friend of mine who works for the title company and she looked it up. It's a land line."

Sara raised her eyebrows in disbelief, "We cannot be that lucky."

Smiling, "We are. The phone number belongs to a home that was bought for a little over two million dollars just before the murder."

She considered, "That's definitely suspicious, but is it enough?"

"No, but who bought the property is," Sara raised an eyebrow as she continued, "it was purchased by an off-shore holding corporation. That corporation as bank-rolled by a trust, and that trust that was financed by the estate of Terrance Steadman."

Sara blinked, "Oh my god."

"I know!" she exclaimed, still grinning.

"You think-I mean, do you think he really lives there? Steadman?"

"I can't see why else they would've bought it, and why else would she be calling there?"

Sara thought for a moment, "So, what do we do now?"

"We have to go to Montana."

Slowly, "We?"

"Well, ok," she laughed, "I'm going to Montana. You're welcome to come along, or I can ask Aldo."

Considering, "Did you tell Aldo yet?"

"No, I'd just figured it out before you got here. I checked and double checked everything, afraid that it was too good to be true."

"Yea, no kidding," Sara braced herself on the back of a chair as she shook her head, sighing in relief, "we finally have something."

Veronica realized that Sara had looked a bit worn down ever since she'd walked through the door, and now she looked like she could cry, "We do," she reassured softly, putting a hand on her back. Veronica had been so excited that she didn't realize just how exhausted Sara seemed, "Are you ok?"

Sara sniffled and ran a hand through her hair, replying simply, "Michael is having a tough time as it is. The guilt. Earlier I just had a," she waved a hand, "a moment. I was afraid of what would happen to him if we couldn't save Lincoln."

She nodded, understanding, "We have something, Sara."

Sara laughed in relief, sniffling again.

"We really have something," Veronica repeated with conviction, smiling softly, "I'll call Aldo tonight to tell him."

"Good. You're right…that's…this is good," she paused for a moment, staring off into space before gathering her thoughts again, "do you want me to tell Lincoln?"

Veronica contemplated, "Yes. I think it's a solid enough lead to tell him. I don't think we'd be in danger of falsely getting his hopes up and I just," she paused, "I don't want him to give up."

Sara nodded and thought back to the Lincoln she'd seen that morning- defeated. Slouching. Doubting how much Michael (and Veronica) cared about him.

"Neither do I. I'll tell him as soon as I can."

XXXXX

It was Monday morning and Michael was at the office before anyone else. He'd spent the day prior packing up his few belongings – the apartment complex had called to tell him that his unit was ready earlier than they expected, and he could move in the next day. He hoped to shift his schedule earlier for Monday and give himself the evening to haul his things over and start settling in.

The morning flew by; it was mostly independent work, but he did consult with a few colleagues on an issue. Once they each knew what they had to do to keep moving forward, he'd settled back into his office and before he knew it, it was time for a lunch break. Just as he was about to head out there was a knock at his door.

"Mr. Scofield?"

He didn't recognize the voice, but answered, "Come in."

"Thank you," the door opened, and a generic looking company agent stepped into the doorway, "the General would like to see you. Today if possible, at whatever time works best for you."

"Uh…ok," he managed in surprise, "what's this about?"

The agent folded his hands in front of him, "I'm not at liberty to say. What time should I tell him to expect you?"

He looked at the clock on his computer, reading 12:14, "How about 2:00?"

The man nodded, "I'll let him know."

XXXXX

Aldo sat in a bar down town, nursing his second whiskey on the rocks. The evening was cool and rainy, the dampness enhancing the smells around him. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent of aged wood from the floors and barstools, the smell of beer and fried foods. He enjoyed weather like this, and it was the perfect ambiance for what he was trying to do.

He needed to compose his statement, his confession. There would of course be questions and he'd have to come up with a lot of answers and responses on the fly, but the initial confession needed to be concise yet thorough. He racked his brain, combing through every detail he could remember from the Ecofield scandal. It felt like forever ago.

The small spiral notebook in front of him started empty, but now had at least a few pages filled out with his messy, incoherent notes. The alcohol loosened his mind, making it harder to focus yet somehow easier to remember. He jotted down everything he could. In the morning, he'd sort through it all and try to make sense out of it.

"Evening," a female voice startled him from behind.

He turned on his barstool to see Gretchen, martini glass in hand, wearing tight black slacks and a blue button-down shirt that was only about half buttoned.

"Good evening yourself."

"Hard at work I see," she observed, gesturing to his notes.

He flipped the notebook shut, "As always. What're you doing here?"

She leaned against the bar, "What? A woman can't just come to a bar on a whim, enjoy a drink?"

He scoffed, "It's just quite a coincidence for you to happen to be at the same bar I am."

She rolled her eyes, "Don't flatter yourself."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

She took a seat on the stool next to him. He observed her face carefully, saw the storm behind her eyes, "So, how're things going?"

Flatly, "Not great. The General blew me off."

He shrugged, "So, try again."

Angrier, "I have tried again. More than once. He has zero interest in even meeting with me in person."

He took another sip and clanked his glass down onto the wooden bar. He could practically see his plan starting to unravel before his eyes and blurted, "What the hell did you do to make him hate you so much?"

Her gaze when icy, but then softened slightly, "You remember his daughter?"

He nodded, "Lisa, right?"

"The one and only. She and I…disagreed about my relationship with the General. We had an argument that got heated. It ended with her calling me, "her father's whore," and I…reacted."

"Reacted?" he asked, raising his brows.

"Punched her in the face and broke her nose."

He couldn't suppress a grin, shaking his head.

Sarcastically, "Oh yea, real funny. Except for the part where it completely screws us over with the whole Scylla plan."

"I'm sorry," he replied composing himself, "just the mental image of you-"

Her eyes locked onto his, daring him to go further.

"-I'm sorry," he cleared his throat, "I guess we'll just have to think of something else."

She sipped her martini with bright red lips, "Like what?"

He looked down at the notebook in front of him, "I don't know yet, but I have to worry about something else first."

"Then what am I supposed to do? I still want to be part of this. I want the money," after a pause, "and I need the General gone."

He empathized and tried to think of another task for her, but getting his mind to shift gears from "confession" mode to "Scylla" mode wasn't easy, and he couldn't quite do it. He'd been thinking about his statement for hours and his mind was stuck on that set of train tracks.

He decided to keep it vague, "Just be on stand-by for now. Trust me, if anything comes up I'll give you a call."

She nodded reluctantly and got up, leaving him alone with his thoughts once again. He opened up his notes and skimmed what he'd already written, ordered a burger from the bartender, and kept racking his brain, knowing he was in for a long night.


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: Hey guys! Hope you're still enjoying this story. As always, I love hearing from you. Feel free to drop a review :)

"Michael, please come in, make yourself comfortable," General Krantz greeted him.

Michael stepped into the spacious office at two o'clock, as promised, "Thank you," he said simply as he took a seat in a leather chair opposite the General, who was behind his desk.

"I know you're a busy man, so I'll try to keep this brief," he started.

Michael waited, wondering why he was there at all.

The General leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, "I spoke with Henry the other day, and he gave you a quite the glowing review. Went so far as to say that you are the reason we've made so much progress on Bargain lately."

"I have a good team," he answered slowly, with caution.

The General gave a hint of a smile, "Modesty is a rare thing around here, Mr. Scofield and you needn't downplay your success. In fact, your success is what I'd like to talk to you about," he paused a moment, folding his hands, "we'd like you to stay and work on another project after Bargain."

Michael's eyes narrowed, his blood instantly starting to boil. He urged himself to stay calm, rational. He didn't want to make an enemy out of the General and right now, he had the upper hand. They wanted him to stay, so he held more bargaining chips. He couldn't risk doing or saying something out of anger and paying for it later.

After a slow exhale he growled, "No. That wasn't the deal."

The General nodded, "You're absolutely right. I reviewed your contract," he patted a manila envelope on his desk, "and it does say that once the Bargain project is completed, you've paid your debt to us. Free and clear of us and the law."

"So, what's the problem?"

"The problem is that you're far too talented to be wasted on an engineering job that's any less than what we do here. The world needs you, Michael."

"I'd rather not."

He chuckled in disbelief, growing agitated, "And why is that?"

Icy blue eyes narrowing, "You know why."

The General sighed, "If this is still about your brother-"

"-it's always been about my brother."

"And that's the problem. You need to worry about your future, and not his."

Sharply, "I don't want a future working for the people who set him up. A future working for the mother who left us, a future-"

"I don't give a damn what you want!" the General yelled, stunning Michael into silence. He looked at the man's face, now flushed with anger, and realized how quickly the General's temper could change, more than matching the sharpness that had been in his own voice.

Then the General's voice lowered to a near whisper, "If you don't choose to stay voluntarily, there are other avenues we can explore, and I don't think you don't want that to happen."

Michael stared at him intensely, "What avenues?"

He leaned back, aloof, "Well, you seem to be awfully fond of Sara," Michael's heart sank into his stomach, "it would be a shame if anything happened to her."

"No," Michael growled, louder this time, "you won't touch her."

Smirking, "Or what?"

Michael stood up and approached his desk, bracing himself on his arms and leaning in close, "Leave her alone. As you said, General, I'm the one making progress on Bargain," staring him dead in the eyes, threatening, "you need me."

He started backing away towards the door and then turned to face him one last time, "Leave her alone."

XXXXX

"You got a visitor, Linc."

He raised his head, looking up from where he was sitting on the floor of his cell. The guard opened his door and he squinted into the light, "Who?"

The guard shook his head, "You always ask, and I always have the same answer. Gotta come with me to find out."

Lincoln grunted and stood up, feeling the stiffness in his legs from sitting on concrete. The only real possibilities running through his mind were: Veronica, Aldo (that was a long shot) and…well, that's about it. If Sara needed to talk he'd be on the way to the infirmary right now and Michael wasn't close enough anymore for spur-of-the-moment visits.

They walked to the visitor room and he saw Veronica in the entryway. Even from a distance he could see a twinkle in her eye, a slight bounce in her step as she made her way to the table.

"Hey," he greeted as he sat down.

She grinned, "Hi."

He waited a moment, watching as she just sat there smiling, and eventually it wore him down. He couldn't help it and cracked a small smile too, "What? Obviously somethings making you happy."

"We have a lead."

For some reason, those words made his heart sink; instead of generating hope, they did the opposite, probably because he'd heard them so many times by now and it never panned out.

Still, he asked reluctantly, "What is it?"

"We got Reynold's phone records. She made a lot of calls to the land line of a house purchased for two million dollars right around the time of the murder."

Shaking his head, "That doesn't mean-"

"-we followed the money back, and it leads to the estate of Terrance Steadman. They bought that house with his money, and now his sister can't stop calling there ever since he was supposedly murdered. He's there, Lincoln. He has to be."

He slowly allowed the pieces to fit together in his mind. It made sense. But a lot of the evidence they'd gathered made sense…until they hit another road block. Doubt was definitely the front-runner in his mind, with hope taking the back seat.

"So, what're you gonna do?" he asked.

"I'm leaving for Montana this afternoon."

He froze, growling, "No."

"I have to I mean, what other choice-"

"-you can't go!" he yelled, and the guards all turned their heads. Quieter, "No way are they just gonna let you walk in there. It's too dangerous."

She met his gaze, determined, "I can't not follow through with this, Lincoln, and besides, your father is going with me, so I won't be alone."

He snarled, "I don't know if I like that any better."

She sighed, "He's been helping us, and I trust him. Plus, he has a gun and knows how to use it, in case anything happens."

He still didn't feel good about it, "Be careful, V. These people they…they'll do whatever they have to."

She put a hand on his, "I know. And so will we."

XXXXX

Michael was still shaken up from his meeting with the General. He used the adrenaline and anger to move boxes into his new apartment in record time.

His hotel had of course been furnished, but the apartment wasn't. It was a blank slate of gray hardwood floors, a black and white kitchen, and stainless steel appliances. It had a balcony as well which he was happy about; they were always a good place for him to zone out and let his mind wander. He glanced towards it wistfully, wishing he could do that now, but knowing that his mind was still fueled by anger and resentment towards the General. Allowing his thoughts to flow uninterrupted while in that state wouldn't be the best idea.

Instead, he looked back towards the door where several thin, yet wide boxes lay, leaned up against the wall. He'd stopped by the store on the way over to get a cheap table, a few chairs, a desk, couch and side table. Nothing came already assembled and he was glad; putting things together was soothing for him- laughably easy compared to what he did all day at work, but still a puzzle nonetheless. He grabbed the boxes and set them flat on the floor, crouching down next to them and starting to empty the boxes - unwrapping pieces from their packaging, finding all the bolts and washers. After a moment of consideration, he decided to start with the table and chairs, figuring he'd need a place to eat dinner before anything else.

The process began to calm his mind, looking at the pieces in front of him and figuring out how they fit together. The instructions remained untouched, but the pieces started looking more and more like a table as he worked.

In the back of his mind, he knew he needed to call Sara, but telling her about the threat was something he wasn't looking forward to. He had to tell her; she had to be aware to protect herself, and that only made a fresh wave of guilt come over him. Once again, someone he loves was in danger and it was his fault. The fact that she wasn't within arm's reach made it even harder; not being able to physically see her to know that she was ok.

And he missed her.

He looked over at the clock on the oven and saw that it was just after five. Not wanting to stall any more, he flipped the assembled table upright and grabbed his phone.

"Hey," she answered quickly.

"Hey."

Something in his tone must have given him away, because the next words out of her mouth were, "Everything ok?"

He sighed, "Not exactly."

"What happened?"

"I had a meeting with the General today."

Slowly, "The General that Christina mentioned?"

"That's the one," he sighed, "he wants to extend my contract, making me stay even after the Bargain project is finished."

"Whoa, hold on. Didn't you sign a contract? They can't do that."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, "No, I know. He told me that he can't legally make me stay. The contract assures that I'm free of The Company after Bargain."

"So, what's the problem then?"

After a moment, "He threatened you."

Silence, then, "What?"

"He strongly hinted that I need to stay because it would be a shame if anything happened to you."

Quietly, "Oh."

"Look, Sara, I won't let anything happen…but I wanted you to know."

"So, what should I do? I mean…"

"I guess just be more aware," he paused, "carrying a gun wouldn't hurt."

"That serious, huh?"

"I don't want to take any chances."

"Ok," she agreed, "but I doubt I'd stand a chance against even a single Company agent…I'm a decent shot but-"

"-I know," he interrupted, "it would just make me feel better somehow," he paused another moment before asking, "Is Veronica still staying with you? Might be a good idea for you to not be alone either."

Hesitantly, "Well…she is, but she left this afternoon for Montana."

"Montana?"

"Oh…yea. She's following a lead. Looks like Steadman has been living in a two-million-dollar house in the middle of nowhere. She and Aldo went to check it out."

"Hmm," he replied, processing this new bit of information. He felt incredibly out of the loop; he didn't blame anyone for it, he was in Miami and they were all in Chicago. It had to be tough to keep everything straight and remember who knew what, but that didn't change how he felt about it.

She broke the silence, "So…aside from The Company threatening me, how're things at work?"

He smiled at her flippant tone and replied, "Pretty good I guess. Making progress, anyways. And I moved into my new apartment."

"Really? When?"

"This evening actually, I'm putting together furniture right now."

Sarcastically, "I'm sure you're really sad about that."

"It's the best thing I've done all day."

She chuckled, "Whatever works for ya."

"Sadly, it really does. It's about the only thing that makes any sense right now."

She sighed, "I know I've said this before, but there's still a chance it could all work out."

He nodded, "I know," he almost didn't want to ask, but did anyways, "how's Linc?"

"Uh," he heard her exhale, "he seems a little down these days. Veronica wanted me to tell him about Montana, but I told her to visit him instead. I don't know…I just thought maybe seeing a familiar face other than mine might be nice. Especially hers."

Distantly, "It does get lonely in there."

"Yea, I guess you know that better than I do," then after a moment, "but he's strong, Michael. He's been through this before."

"Yea…don't remind me," he replied with a hint of venom that he hadn't intended.

"No, I didn't mean it like that," she replied tiredly, a bit indignant.

He lowered his head, wincing at his words, "I know, I'm sorry I just…I still feel useless."

"Michael, you've got your hands full there with everything you're working on. I'm keeping a friendly eye on Lincoln, and Veronica and Aldo are following the lead. You've got a team here, it doesn't all fall on you."

"Guess we can agree to disagree on that one."

He knew he was being stubborn and maybe even hurtful, but the guilt was eating him alive. Every day it chipped away at his patience more and more, the sense of urgency piling up as Lincoln's execution date loomed closer.

"Ok, well," she started wrapping up, knowing she couldn't get through to him that night, "I need to make dinner, but I'll start being extra careful, ok?"

"Ok," he closed his eyes, "I love you."

XXXXX

Veronica slowly woke up as the plane descended into Montana. It was late and dark, Aldo snoring softly in the seat next to her.

They had a rental car reserved along with hotel room for the night in Bozeman. In the morning, they'd start fresh and drive a good four or five hours to Blackfoot, where the Steadman residence was located. Beyond that, she had no idea what to expect.

She rested her head against the cold cabin window, looking down at the orange glow of city lights beneath them. They had an address and good intentions, but a fear that that wasn't enough started stirring in her belly. Aldo had a gun, which brought some comfort, but not enough. Was the place guarded? Because if it was, she and Aldo with their one gun didn't stand a chance against a slew of company agents.

It was too late to back out. She didn't want to back out, but the uncertainty was creeping in. Any crack in her confidence about this case was growing wider, splintering off and spreading.

As if sensing her distress, Aldo woke up and blinked a few times, looking in her direction.

"Almost there?" he asked.

"Looks like it, yea," she replied, seeing the lights getting closer as they descended.

"Good. We can rest up and hit the road first thing."

Distantly, "Mhmm."

He nudged her arm, "It's a good lead, you know," he looked her in the eyes. She could see that he meant it.

"I know," she crossed her arms, "I'm just starting to think about what could happen when we get there, you know? We don't know anything about this place. Maybe the whole property is gated or guarded…alarms and security-"

"-we'll cross that bridge if we get to it," he waved a hand. The nonchalant gesture made her feel a little more at ease. She forgot sometimes that Aldo worked for The Company for years and if he wasn't worried, she shouldn't be either.

The plane landed, and they got off, shuffling along with the other sleepy passengers. They got their bags and rental car without incident and were on the road shortly after with Aldo driving. Their hotel was only about fifteen minutes away and Veronica was more than ready for a bed to sleep on. She yawned and let her head lull to the side, her eyes opening and closing heavily on the short ride over.

She felt the car stop and Aldo shut it off, cutting the white noise and leaving silence in its place. They got out and grabbed their bags, walking into the lobby. The hotel was under his name, so he checked them in and gave her a key. They walked down the hallway and got on the elevator; she pressed the button for the third floor.

"So, tomorrow…" she started, exhausted but still wanting a plan.

He shifted his weight, "Well, I say we leave around seven or so, get on the road. It's at least four hours and that's if we don't stop."

She looked at her phone and saw the time- 11 p.m. A shower sounded like a great idea, but she was exhausted. She considered waiting and taking one in the morning, but either way it was going to cut into her sleeping time…and she felt gross from traveling.

The elevator dinged, and they stepped off, "You mind if I shower tonight?" she asked as they walked to their room.

"Not at all - I'll be in bed within five minutes and sleep though anything," he unlocked the door and they both went inside. She set her bag on the bed closest to the bathroom and grabbed a soft t-shirt and sweatpants while he closed the blinds and started rummaging through his bag.

"Alright, if you're asleep when I come back out, goodnight."

"Night Veronica, I'll set an alarm for six if that's ok?"

"Sounds good to me," she went into the bathroom and shut the door.

She peeled of her jeans and sweater, tossing them on the floor and turning the shower on. She stepped into the warmth and practically melted. The streams of hot water pelted her back, dissolving the tension from sitting on a plane. She grabbed the mini shampoo bottle and poured some into her hand, moving almost on autopilot as her tired mind wandered.

It all felt surreal. How long had she been working on this case? And tomorrow was the big day. Now or never. If she wasn't so tired she was sure her stomach would be in knots, but since that wasn't the case, she instead felt like she was floating. It was almost peaceful.

The subtle citrus scent filled the bathroom along with the steam as she got out of the shower, not wanting to leave the comforting warmth, but knowing she needed sleep. Aldo was asleep as promised when she exited the bathroom. She crawled under the crisp white sheets and plugged her phone in, checking for messages one last time before falling asleep.

XXXXX

It was late, and Sara was already in bed. Veronica and Aldo were long gone, and she'd had the evening to herself, which was anything but a luxury. Her conversation with Michael had left a bitter taste in her mouth and had given her mind too much to chew on. After they'd hung up, she'd distractedly made some spaghetti and ate it without paying any attention to the food. Was there something more she could do to ease his mind? Or was it something he just had to work out on his own?

Laying on her back, she watched the ceiling fan spinning lazily above her and realized that's what he'd been trying to do all along and it obviously wasn't working. Something was changing gradually; he was getting more and more impatient and frustrated. It was understandable, but it seemed to be running deeper these days. On their phone call, he hadn't been over-the-top rude or anything, but there had been an edge to his voice that she'd never heard before.

Her mind went back to the meeting she'd had with his psychiatrist. It felt like years ago. After accidentally learning that he had a psych record, she was too curious to not find out more. The psychiatrist's words echoed in her mind.

"Michael became a helper; one of those people who is more concerned about the welfare of others than their own."

It was in his nature, just like hers. She tried to imagine being in his shoes. She'd done that before; as a general rule, she considered herself a good empathizer. That's why she liked her job and helping people, but this time she tried, really tried to imagine what he must be feeling.

But she didn't have a brother…or sister for that matter.

She huffed and rolled over, snuggling deeper under the covers and closing her eyes.

Ok, close friend then, she reasoned. What if it was Veronica? Or Katie? What if they were on death row for a crime that didn't even happen. Then she spent God knows how many hours planning an escape that was successful. They felt free. They'd made it, but then her friend was captured again and put back on death row. Now everyone she cared about was working tirelessly to save them while she worked on something unrelated in a different state.

Her eyes jolted open again and she took a deep breath, fighting the crushing pressure that was building in her chest. Imagining that scenario wasn't something she ever wanted to do again. Her mind swirled in frustrating, anxious energy and that was just from imagining the scenario. He was living it.

She wanted to talk to him, skipping the pleasantries and letting him vent, but the clock next to her read eleven and she knew it was too late to call – he had work in the morning and so did she…although sleep was almost certainly out of the question for her.

She closed her eyes again, trying to banish all disturbing notions from her mind with little luck. Thoughts wandered from Michael to Lincoln, to Veronica and Aldo, and ended up landing on her father, surprising herself. If he'd just agreed to delay the damn execution in the first place maybe everything - no. She stopped herself from wandering down that path, knowing that Michael might not have received his life saving surgery if everything hadn't panned out the way it did.

She yawned and snuggled deeper into her pillow, looking at the clock that now read midnight. She cursed softly to herself; tomorrow was going to be a long day at work.

XXXXX

Ok, now Veronica's stomach was in knots. The breakfast sandwich and coffee they'd gotten on their way to Blackfoot hadn't settled like it normally did. They were only twenty minutes from the Steadman residence and she could feel the nervous energy in every fiber of her being. Aldo was a steady presence behind the wheel, appearing calm and collected, but she wondered how he was really feeling.

She also couldn't help but wonder why she was feeling so uneasy. There were the obvious reasons of course, like personal safety, but there was more to it than that. From the moment she'd learned of The Company, she knew she might end up in a less than desirable situation with dangerous people and weapons, but what she wasn't ready for was the real possibility of Lincoln having a future. More importantly, did that future include her?

They'd drifted apart when she'd gone to law school. She'd only come back into the picture when Lincoln (and then Michael) had been arrested. But now that they were a part of each other's lives again, she wondered what would come of it.

She never liked to let herself think that far ahead before. When he was first put on death row, all she'd felt was hopeless. When he'd insisted that he was innocent, she still didn't feel like he had a real shot, but she kept her mind open despite the fact that the evidence against him was solid. It wasn't until she started digging, realizing that she might be able to catch a mistake, that she even allowed the possibility of Lincoln being alive and free for years to come to enter her mind. But now that they were physically on their way to meet Steadman…she just felt overwhelmed.

The future was something she couldn't bring herself to talk to Lincoln about yet. He'd probably make fun of her, accuse her of being all mushy and romantic during a life and death situation, but that's one of the reasons she liked him. She smiled to herself at the thought, Lincoln getting all flustered and awkward if she started suggesting they go on a date after he gets out. But suggesting wouldn't do it, she'd have to flat out ask him. He didn't always pick up on subtle hints very well.

She looked out the window again at the lush green and mountains around them, taking a deep breath. One thing at a time; get Lincoln out of Fox River. Make sure he's free and ok. Then she can see if there's any relationship there to be re-kindled.

Aldo glanced towards her, "You ready?"

"No," she replied honestly, "but yes. I just…I don't know what to expect."

"Me neither, but we'll figure it out. I can take lead if you want," he offered.

"Sounds good," she replied, comforted by the fact that she wouldn't be the one to speak first to Steadman…assuming he was there. Or to the guards – if there were guards. She huffed a breath, the uncertainties swirling around her mind once again.

"Sorry, I'm not being very helpful," she offered, wishing she could summon a bit of bravery before they got there.

He glanced over at her, confused, "Veronica, you've helped with this more than anyone else, what're you talking about?"

She laughed nervously, "Guess now that it's all coming together I'm just…a bit more uncertain than I expected," she shook her head, trying to shake it off, "but it's fine. I'm ok," she assured.

He nodded, "We're almost there. I'm sure once we're parked and start this thing the nerves will go away. It's the waiting beforehand that's always the worst."

She nodded silently, hoping he was right.

Ten agonizing minutes later, a mansion came into view. They hadn't seen any houses for at least a mile, but once they rounded a corner, the giant home came into view.

"Think we found our place," Aldo commented, putting on his blinker and turning up the driveway.

Veronica glanced around at their surroundings again as they drove up the driveway, solidifying her observations that there really wasn't anything around for miles. The nearest houses were completely out of sight, and the driveway must have been at least a half mile long.

Aldo pulled up and parked their car in the large landing by the house. They unclicked their seatbelts and got out, Aldo grabbing his gun and holstering it. Veronica made sure her phone was securely in her back pocket and tugged her blue sweater down, taking a breath.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Let's go," she agreed, and they walked up the front porch steps together.

Aldo rang the doorbell and got no response. He knocked loudly three times and they waited again.

Nothing.

Veronica peeked in through the windows framing the door and couldn't see anyone. She looked at the doorknob, knowing that it was foolish to try, but she did anyways. It was unlocked.

She looked over at Aldo who was just as surprised as she was, and he nodded, encouraging her to open it.

Aldo went in first, asking loudly, "Hello? Anyone here?"

They waited, Veronica shutting the door behind them as they walked into the living room. The house was massive – the interior was reminiscent of a cabin, with wood being the solid focus. The sky-high, vaulted ceilings wanted to make the place feel open and airy, but it somehow had an overall feeling of dimness. It felt closed in.

A shuffling from upstairs caught both of their attention.

"Hello?" Aldo repeated, "we're friendly here. Don't want any trouble."

Veronica tried not to smirk at the lie. They didn't want to hurt anyone, but they were certainly causing trouble for The Company.

More shuffling and footsteps echoed in the large room as a man in a robe and plaid lounge pants appeared at the top of the stairs. They waited as the man looked down at them with a dull gaze, not appearing to be concerned at all, and asked, "Can I help you?"

XXXXX

Mahone walked up to a beautiful Victorian home, past a large water fountain in the driveway, and knocked on the front door.

A kind, older man opened the door.

"Agent Mahone, F.B.I., mind if I come in?"

The man looked surprised, but backed away and allowed him to enter, "Please, come on in. Is everything ok?"

Mahone looked at Judge Davis and wished that he was a grumpy, unlikable man. Instead, his gentle eyes expressed only concern as he gestured for him to take a seat in the living room.

"Everything is fine, I was just hoping you could help me out with a case I'm working on."

Judge Davis opened his palms, "I'll do whatever I can."

Nodding, "Thank you. It's come to our attention that Veronica Donovan paid you a visit the other day."

He blinked a few times, "She did."

"And what was the purpose of her visit?"

The older man leaned back in his chair, "She wanted a warrant for phone records pertaining to the Lincoln Burrows case."

"Records for who?"

He blew out a breath, "Vice President Reynolds."

"And you signed it?"

"I did."

A bit surprised, Mahone asked, "Mind if I ask why?"

He shrugged, "She had sufficient evidence; valid reasons for wanting to dig into those records a bit."

Processing, "And did she get anything?"

He furrowed his brows, "Sorry?"

Rephrasing, "Did she get anything from the records? Did she find what she was looking for?"

"Oh," he shook his head, "you'd have to ask her."

Sighing, "Any idea where I could find her?"

Obviously not realizing the gravity of the situation, he looked confused again and laughed, "Home I'd guess, it's not my day to watch her, Agent Mahone."

Mahone wanted to be mad but couldn't muster it with this guy. Harmless was an understatement; but he truly didn't realize he'd allowed Pandora's box to be opened.

He stood up, "Thank you for your time, I'll see myself out."

XXXXX

Sara groaned and sat up in bed, silencing the wails from her alarm. That was officially the worst night of sleep she'd had in a long time. Her body was heavy, her mind nothing but fog. She exhaled dramatically, grabbed her phone, and mustered the strength to push herself upright and trudge into the bathroom. Bleary eyed, she glanced at herself in the mirror, confirming that she looked as bad as she felt.

Make-up and coffee were definitely in her future; she'd do her best to convince the world that she wasn't a sleep deprived zombie. She thought about going out to the kitchen first to brew herself a cup before she got ready, but her mind tossed out the possibility of stopping by her favorite coffee shop and get a large-sized whatever she wanted. She didn't need any more convincing than that, and grabbed her make-up instead, starting to apply enough to conceal the poor night of sleep.

A few minutes later, her phone buzzed on the counter. Mascara wand in hand, she glanced down and saw it was a text from Michael.

"Can I call you?"

That was enough to have her calling him without texting a reply.

"Hey," he answered.

"Hey, what's up?" she replied, putting her phone on speaker and continuing with her make-up.

Sighing, "A few things. The first one being, I'm really sorry about yesterday…I didn't mean to snap."

Relieved, "It's ok –"

"- no it's not. You're just trying to help, and I shouldn't take my problems out on you."

"Well," she capped the mascara and put it on the counter, "I appreciate that. And I'm sorry for what you're going through. Is there anything I can do?"

"There is actually."

Surprised, "Yea? What is it?"

"Would you mind if I came back to Chicago until Lincoln's last day and…stay with you?"

"Lincoln's last day." His words repeated themselves in her mind. So, despite his hopefulness about their lead, he was still preparing for the worst.

"Uh," her eyes narrowed in confusion, "no, that's fine but…don't you have work?"

He sighed, "I do but uh, I'm hoping I can work remotely…at least for the next two weeks. I can do most of my work on my laptop and with emails and phone calls. I think given the circumstances they might be ok with it."

She hoped he was right; although it was kind of odd…the people behind Lincoln's execution allowing his brother time off work to mourn that loss. Cruel irony.

But the prospect of seeing him in person had her heart thumping faster, a tingle of excitement in her veins.

"Yea, if they're ok with it – sure, of course you can stay here."

"Thank you," then teasing, "just make sure there's room for my suitcase when I get there."

Confused, "What do you mean?"

"When I gave you the rose, you said you're a pack-rat and never throw anything out."

Smiling, "Oh. That. Well, it's better now. I had a few stress-cleaning nights when everything was happening and donated a lot of stuff."

He chuckled, "Glad to hear it," then his voice grew quiet, "I can't wait to see you again."

His words sent a shiver up her spine. Her mind flashed back to the feeling of being in his arms on the balcony in Miami; his steady presence as she leaned into him. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to remember.

"Me too," she answered softly, "let me know what they say, ok? And if you book a flight here so I can pick you up."

"You'll be the first to know."


	27. Chapter 27

Michael straightened his blue tie and shrugged on his dark gray jacket. He liked to keep it on the back of his chair while he worked, preferring to be on the cooler side, but he had to meet with Henry to request time off, and always tried to be the utmost professional when around his coworkers. He meandered down the hall and knocked on his boss's door.

"Come on in," he heard from behind the door.

"Morning, Henry," Michael greeted as he stepped into his office.

"Michael, how're you this morning?"

"Uh," he thought about the real answer, but gave a more pleasant one instead, "I'm fine, thank you. You?"

The older man's eyes twinkled as he shrugged, "Glad to see another day."

Michael nodded at that simple truth, "I won't take much of your time, I just have a small favor to ask."

"Sure," he answered, leaning forward in his desk chair.

Michael stuck his hands in his pockets, "I'd like to take the next few weeks off. I'll still work on Bargain, I'd just like to do it remotely from my laptop. I can handle everything through emails and phone calls if needed."

Henry blinked a few times, contemplating, "I don't see why that would be an issue. I hope you don't mind my asking, but is everything alright?"

Michael didn't know what Henry knew about the whole situation, so he kept it simple, "It's a family matter, and I'd rather be there in person to deal with it."

He nodded, "Family first. You're welcome to take a few weeks out of the office and work remotely, just be in touch – let me know when you'll be back."

Nodding, "Thank you, sir."

"Will today be your last day, then?"

His mind flashed to Sara, to Lincoln. He could see them tomorrow if he got on a plane after work. But, he realized with disappointment, there were a few things he needed to talk to the team about…in person; things that really shouldn't wait.

"Uh," he considered, "I'll be here today and tomorrow, then I'll head home."

Henry nodded in agreement.

XXXXXX

"Dammit," Sara cursed under her breath, taking off her protective glasses.

The target in front of her was riddled with bullet holes, but so was the wall behind it. She felt the weight of the gun in her hand, trying to remember when she'd last used it. It was a small, black hand gun that her father had given to her when she went off to live on her own, demanding she have one for self-protection. She understood the logic, but owning a gun and actually being skilled in its use was a whole different story.

She took her ear plugs out and let out a frustrated sigh, staring at the outline of a man in front of her. She tilted her head, examining it. If she was close to her target, she could do some damage…but probably not if they were moving.

The mental scenarios started playing themselves out; an incredibly skilled Company agent sneaking after her, breaking into her home…waking up to a crash in the middle of the night and having to grab her gun, shooting at someone as adrenaline forced her mind awake.

She was scared, and she acknowledged that, seeing the slight tremble of the gun in her hand as she imagined the worst.

But, she knew the best cure for that was to take action, which is why she was at the range in the first place.

At this point though, she was probably just getting more discouraged than anything, and decided to call it quits for the day. Besides, she was already late for work.

She'd told Pope last night that she needed a few hours in the morning of personal time and he hadn't said a word – just agreed amicably and said whenever she made it in, they'd be happy to have her. She wasn't missing any appointments with patients anyways, just the usual mundane tasks of filing and completing forms. It would all still be there when she made it in.

She packed her things and left the range, ignoring the confused stares that a few men gave her as she walked out. She supposed she did stick out a little – wearing black slacks and a long sleeved gray shirt to the shooting range wasn't a normal ensemble, but it was her work outfit and she didn't want to have to change. Plus, what difference did it make anyways- she was shooting a gun; as long as her clothes didn't get in the way, it shouldn't matter.

With that justification in mind, she got to her car and tossed her purse into the passenger seat, pulling out of the parking lot.

Halfway to work, her phone rang.

"Hello?" she put it on speaker.

"Hey," Michael's familiar voice replied.

Smiling, "Hey, yourself."

"So uh, you told me to let you know if they were gonna give me time off…"

Her heart stopped in anticipation, "And?"

She could hear his smile, "I'm working today and tomorrow, then I'll be on my way – just need to book a flight."

A grin spread from ear to ear, "Ok, great," she tried to keep from sounding too giddy, "uh, I'll be there to get you just tell me where and when."

"Will do, I'll look for flights tonight."

A brief silence fell between them, both of them wanting to express their anticipation to see each other again, but not wanting to seem overly excited.

He finally broke that silence with a sigh, "God I can't wait to see you."

She let out the same relief that he had, "Me neither," then with a smirk, "I kinda miss having you around."

"I kinda miss being around," his voice quieted towards the end. It was the same low, honest voice she remembered, the one that always sent a chill up her spine, turned her brain to mush.

"I'll feel a lot better with you here, I…" she let out a frustrated sigh, "I didn't do too well at target practice today."

"You went to target practice?"

"Yea I figured I should…and I was right. It's been a long time since I've shot anything."

"Well that's…good, I guess."

She couldn't help but chuckle, "Under normal circumstances, I'd agree with you. But right now, I wished I'd kept my skills brushed up a little more," her mind flashed back to the black and white, human outline at the range, "I'm not feeling too confident."

"But you have a gun," he emphasized, "sometimes pointing one in someone's face is enough to get them to back off."

She ran a hand through her hair, the other on the steering wheel, "Yea, I guess you're right. But still. I'm glad you're coming home," she froze, "I uh, I mean – "

"-no," he interrupted, softly, "it's home. Always has been, and I…want it to be home again."

Relieved she hadn't hit a sore spot, she relaxed her grip on the wheel.

"With you," he added with certainty, though it was almost a whisper.

Another smile spread on her lips, a small lump forming in her throat, "I like the sound of that."

XXXXXX

"Can I help you?" Steadman's words echoed in Veronica's mind as she struggled to comprehend what she was seeing.

Silently glancing at Aldo, she begged him to answer; she was in no state to articulate what the hell he could help them with. Everything? Nothing? Being alive was enough, but she knew that wouldn't make any sense.

"Uh, hi," Aldo started, "Terrence Steadman?"

The man smirked a sly, tired smile, "That depends on who you ask I suppose."

Veronica wasn't in the mood for games, "I'm asking. You're Terrence Steadman."

He didn't deny it, but simply shuffled down the stairs. His gray hair was a ruffled mess, his slippers rough around the edges. He walked past them both and into the kitchen.

Aldo and Veronica followed, dumbfounded. They were basically intruding in this man's home and he didn't seem the least bit concerned. In fact, he started making himself something to eat; dicing up a few bananas and apples, adding some greens and throwing the whole mess into a blender. When the loud, whirling sound came to a stop, Aldo tried again, "Excuse me?"

Steadman took a gulp, "You're excused."

A fire lit in Veronica's stomach; this guy didn't get it. Didn't have a damn clue about all the lives being ruined and the life that almost ended because of him. Sitting in his mountain cabin drinking a goddamn smoothie.

"Ok, what the hell," she started, ignoring the warning glances that Aldo threw her way, "do you have any idea what's going on in the real world? The consequences of what you did? The lives that're ruined?"

He looked at her, uninterested.

"Because I do," she continued, "we know all about the scandal with Ecofield and the Company. We know that Lincoln Burrows was set up to take the fall for murdering you, covering the whole thing up. And now, we know," she emphasized, staring daggers, "that you're alive. And we're taking that information public."

To prove it, she pulled out her cell phone to take pictures, capturing the moment.

"Young woman," he warned, taking a seat in his recliner, "they won't let you do this."

"Who? The Company?" she asked with feigned interest, "They've done enough already, but now we have what we need. They won't win this time."

He sighed, setting his glass on the table next to him, "Yes they will…they always do."

Tilting her head, with fake sincerity, "Why so glum, Terrence? They've kept you alive, after all."

Dismissively, "You don't understand, I'm a prisoner to all of this."

"What do you mean?"

His gaze moved between her and Aldo, "I've been living up here, alone, since it all happened. They took my life…my teeth…"

Something in his voice was melancholy, remembering. Veronica thought back to the dental record mishap, realizing what they'd done…understanding his preference for smoothies.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I couldn't," he paused, "they made sure of that. I have one phone and they monitor every call…I can't leave, and now you can't either."

She met his eyes, indignant, "Can't?"

He tilted his head, "Didn't it strike you as curious, the door being unlocked?"

She paused, "Well, yea, but-"

"-the doors only open from the outside."

She looked at Aldo, who went to the door, testing it. It was locked.

"Windows?" she asked no one in particular.

Steadman answered, "The glass is two inches thick, bullet-proof," sadly, "there's no getting out of here."

XXXXXX

Michael was summoned to see the General again. The request left him anxious, his heart pounding. He had a feeling he knew what this was about but couldn't be sure. His suspicions: he was either going to deny his request to go home or pressure him again to stay on for another project. Either way, he didn't like it.

He finished his lunch with disinterest, ignoring the nervous churning in his stomach as he walked down the hall and to the elevator, making his way to General Krantz's office.

There was a body guard outside the door, but Michael didn't waste any time, "The General wanted to see me."

The guard seemed to recognize him and stepped aside, allowing him to enter.

"Michael, thank you for coming," the General greeted from his standing position, looking out the window, "have a seat."

"No thanks, I'd rather not stay long," he replied with bitter honesty.

The General's bushy eyebrows raised in amusement, "Very well. I wanted to discuss our proposition; I hope you've reconsidered."

"Oh, I've thought about your proposition," Michael admitted, "but I haven't changed my mind."

Darkly, "That's a shame," he paused, slowly wandering towards him, "taking action…forcing you to comply wasn't my first choice, but it looks like it's the only one I have left."

Eyes icy and narrow, "You won't touch her."

"This is no longer a negotiation, Michael," he moved over to his desk, grabbing a folder and handing it to him.

He took it gingerly and opened the folder slowly. His stomach dropped through the floor.

In it were pictures of Sara – his beautiful Sara. They were candid photos, which could only mean that she was being watched. He sank into the chair now, picking up each one and examining it: Sara walking into work, Sara in her car, Sara outside of what he could only assume was her apartment building…

"No," he said emphatically, his voice thick with emotion.

The General's reply was low, "You belong to us now."

The horror turned to panic as he grabbed the file and fled the office, running down the hallway and riding the infuriatingly slow elevator back to his office. His frustration was ready to explode; the helplessness he'd felt with Lincoln all along was still there, but now it had doubled, with Sara's safety added to the mix. His blood was boiling, but the anger was mixed with a deep sadness, a hopelessness, threatening to pull him down.

He grabbed his phone and dialed Sara right away.

"Hey, you," she answered happily.

"Sara, listen to me," he hurried.

Alarmed, "What?"

"They," he swallowed the lump in his throat, "they're watching you…The Company they're-" he choked out a near sob.

"-whoa, slow down," she soothed, and then he heard her muffled, "I gotta take this Katie, I'll be in my office a minute."

"Ok, now what's going on?" she asked again.

"The General wanted to meet with me again today, demanding I remain a Company employee. They have pictures of you, Sara. At work. Driving. At what I'm guessing is your apartment building."

Softer, "Oh my God."

Hot tears burned behind his eyes, "I'm so sorry, I-" he punched the wall in his office, pounding his fist again, feeling the pain in his hand but not being able to care.

"Michael, hey, take a breath."

Her voice felt so far away, his ears ringing, but he forced a shaky inhale.

"I'm still ok," she reassured, "you're coming here in a few days, Veronica and Aldo will be back…this will all be over soon."

"But it WON'T be!" he yelled, tears flowing freely now, "I'm stuck here…the last thing the General said to me was, "You belong to us now.""

Those words were met with silence, both of them feeling their weight - their binding, crushing weight that only got worse when struggled against.

"I…I don't know what to say," she admitted, a hint of fear in her voice now.

He sniffled, blinking the droplets from his eyelashes, "Me neither."

XXXXX

Veronica started checking all the doors and every window in the whole house. Steadman remained apathetically in the recliner, with Aldo keeping watch. Despite the home's enormous size, it was starting to feel incredibly small and crushing.

There wasn't a way out.

Ok, she thought, we'll just call someone. The police? She immediately shot down that idea, knowing that she couldn't trust them not to be Company. Sara?

She paced and nervously chewed on her fingernail, a bad habit that only reared its head in the most desperate situations. Sara was hours away by plane even if she somehow managed to find a flight that left…well, now preferably, but that wasn't reasonable.

"They'll find you, you know," Steadman spoke, and she glanced over.

Aldo questioned, "What're you talking about?"

"The agents, they come by every other day for security checks."

She didn't even need to ask which agents he was referring to, and her heart rate quickened, "When are they coming by again?"

"Well, lucky for you, you just missed them this morning. They won't be around again until tomorrow afternoon," he said with an odd smile.

"Is this funny to you?" she asked, her emerald eyes piercing.

He chuckled sadly, "No, I'm just happy to not be the only one stuck in their web I suppose. For now, anyways."

Aldo asked, "For now?"

Soberly, "No one gets out of here. The only reason I'm still breathing is that my sister demands it. You have no such luxury, I'm afraid."

Veronica had heard enough. If Sara could get there by tomorrow morning she could open the door and let them all out. Her only other concern was Steadman; would he rat them out? What's to stop him from calling The Company right now and telling them they're here? Unless something was in it for him.

She turned to him, "What if we had a way to get you out?"

He scoffed.

"I'm serious," she moved closer to him, "you know about this whole thing, so I'll spare you the back story, but we're here to save Lincoln. He," she gestured towards Aldo, "is the one who leaked the scandal. He's also Lincoln's father. They set Lincoln up to flush him out, and now he's going to go public with that information. That's why we're here: to set Lincoln free, and to show the world what The Company really does."

Slightly interested, Steadman replied, "I still don't see how that gets me out of here."

"The Company is what's keeping you here. If we can get out, you can come with us – go public with the story alongside him. Once the story is out they have no reason to go after you," she shrugged, "faking your murder only served them because it buried the scandal. Now, the scandal will be out for the whole world to see anyways; they can't hide the truth anymore."

Defeated, "They still might kill me."

She saw that he was interested, even a little bit, and dove in deeper, "But isn't the chance at a real life worth the risk? I mean," she gestured around to the house, "is this really all you want, for the rest of your life? Is this a life worth living?"

He was silent, considering.

"Take a chance, Terrence."

After a moment, "I guess I could consider it."

Grinning, "Well, consider fast, we'll be out of here by tomorrow."

Aldo looked at her with confusion, "How?"

"Oh," she remembered that the whole "calling Sara" plan had only been articulated in her mind, "I'll call Sara. She can fly out as soon as possible and let us out."

"Think she'll do that?" Aldo asked, a bit skeptical, "I mean, I know she helped with the research, but this is a pretty big ask."

Confident in her friend, "I know she will."

XXXXXX

Not long after her unsettling chat with Michael, Sara's phone was ringing again. It was in her white coat pocket as she and Katie were in the process of cleaning out a nasty cut. She couldn't see the caller I.D., given that her hands were in blood-covered gloves, but her gut told her the call was important.

"Agh," Sara shook her head, pulling her gloves off inside out and removing them, "sorry, Katie, I need to take this again."

The nurse smiled, "Miss Popularity over here."

She blushed and ducked into her office, seeing the caller I.D. now, "Hey, Veronica."

"Sara, you've got to come here, we need your help."

For the second time that day, a wave of panic washed over her, "Why, what's going on?"

"We're locked in."

"Locked…in?"

"At Steadman's house. He's here. He's alive, but they have him trapped, the doors only open from the outside and the windows are bulletproof."

"Uh," she processed the new information, "can't you call-"

"-we can't call the cops."

"Yea, you're right," she looked at the clock, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, "uh, I can't get there right now, I mean…are you safe for the night? He's not threatening you?"

"No, he's pretty…docile, I guess. The problem is The Company does security checks every other day and they'll be here again tomorrow afternoon."

Her heart rate increased, "That's soon, Veronica. I mean, I can try to book a flight…I, uh," her mind was spinning with all she had to do, "what's the address?"

Veronica recited it, and Sara scribbled it onto a sticky note on her desk.

"Ok, I'll look at flights for tonight and let you know."

"Thank you," Veronica sighed, "thank you, thank you, thank you."

"Of course," growing more determined, "I'll be there tomorrow, I promise."

"Alright, text me the flight details. I better hang up - save my battery."

"Sounds good, bye."

"Bye, Sara."

XXXXXX

Michael left work early and went home, still fuming and beyond upset. He tossed his keys and jacket onto the table and walked out to the balcony, trying to calm his mind, to gain some useful perspective.

He was already dreading tomorrow; going to work for even one more day seemed like an impossible task, knowing that people were watching Sara, that they were close to her…close enough to-

He squeezed his eyes shut, his fists wrapping around the metal bars of the balcony until his knuckles were white. When he finally blinked his eyes open again, seeing the soft oranges of the sunset, he felt incredibly tired; the anger and fear weighing on him, draining him of all energy. His vision became soft around the edges, lazily staring at the horizon.

When his phone started going off in his pocket, he almost didn't feel it, but when he realized what the sensation was, it jump-started his heart. The fear coming back, hitting him like a brick as he pulled it from his pocket, fearing the worst.

But it wasn't Sara.

"Hello?" he asked, confused.

"Good evening, Michael," Christina replied coyly, surprising him with a voice he hadn't heard in a while.

Flatly, "What do you want?"

"My my," she feigned offense, "sounds like someone's having a rough evening."

"What do you want?" he repeated.

After a moment, "Well, it's come to my attention that you and General Krantz are having a bit of trouble getting along."

Scowling, "That's an understatement."

"He can certainly be difficult," she commiserated, "what I wanted to offer was a mutually beneficial arrangement between you and I."

The fatigue from moments before came back. He was so tired; tired of the games, of the schemes and the lies. The "deals" that always seemed to end badly…but he was in a bad spot right now. The General had him backed into a corner, so he decided to hear her out.

Slowly, "What is it?"

She hesitated a moment, "After working here these past few weeks, you've seen what The Company is capable of. You've seen the good things that we can do. This…organization doesn't have to be one of bloodthirsty fools shooting down anyone who gets in their way. We have the best minds in the world here, Michael, but they bend to the will of their leader. General Krantz."

He listened, realizing she was speaking with true passion. Leaning against the siding of the balcony, he let her continue.

"Michael, if someone else was the leader – a woman…a mother, think of what we could accomplish –"

"-a mother?" he interrupted, "you can't be referring to yourself."

"Well, I am your mother, like it or not."

"You weren't there for us," his voice low, harsh, "you left us, without so much as an explanation."

Quieter, "I know." He realized that she actually sounded remorseful, but he tucked that observation away for later. His wasn't ready to let his guard down around her yet.

After a moment, she continued, "but you're missing the point. The Company doesn't have to be an evil and corrupt organization. If the General were to be…removed from the picture, The Company could thrive; we could become a reputable organization without the scandals, the cover-ups, the-"

"-we?" he interjected, not wanting to be roped into this organization any longer than he already was.

"Oh, don't worry, I wouldn't chain you to a desk and sentence you to hard labor."

Growing wearier by the minute, "I'm sorry, but what exactly is the deal you'd like to propose?"

Her answer was in simple, business terms, "Bargain. We both know that you're capable of finishing Scylla on your own. If you were to do that and give it to me, I could sell it, kill Krantz, and become the new leader of The Company. I'd give you 25% of the Scylla profit and let you live your life however you choose," after a pause, "you'd be free, Michael."

"Kill him?" he echoed, surprised at the flippant way she'd just suggested murder, grazing over it with money talk like it was nothing.

She sighed, a hint of regret, "I don't see him going away quietly by any other means."

He sank down into the cushions of a patio chair and looked at the now darker sky, felt the cool night air starting to settle. He thought of the General. Of Sara. How many lives were hanging in the balance because of him? He felt like he was playing God more often than not, and it wasn't something he relished. The General was at the top of his list of least favorite people, but did he really deserve to die? And who was he to decide that?

"Michael?" she questioned him back into reality.

After a moment, "How do I know you won't back out of your end of the deal?"

"I didn't last time, did I? Your headaches are still gone I assume."

He remembered the horrific headaches and blurry vision…the blackouts, "Yes, they are."

"I will hold up my end, Michael. You were granted freedom from the law, and your contract with us still states that you're free after Bargain. It's the General that's pulling your strings now, but I can get rid of him. I have people on my side willing to do what needs to be done."

"You just said that you want The Company to not be blood thirsty, to not hurt people," he countered.

"Well," she sighed, "I'm no ethics expert, but taking one life to prevent the loss of hundreds of more seems like a noble pursuit to me," she replied smoothly.

He brought a finger to his chin, thinking. The sound of crickets started around him, the blackness of night contrasting with their enthusiastic song, "I'll think about it."

XXXXX

Sara left work early and in a rush, apologizing profusely to a confused Katie. Dumping her work on the nurse wasn't something she enjoyed doing, but she had to get Veronica and Aldo out of there. Katie had graciously told her not to worry about it; she'd hold down the fort.

With that one worry soothed, Sara grabbed her bag and darted out the door, making her way to her car and heading home. As soon as she unlocked the door, she started multi-tasking; finding a flight online and booking it while packing a small bag for her unexpected trip. A change of clothes, basic toiletries, her wallet…that was about all she needed.

She'd found a late flight and booked it without even thinking about the price, already checking the time and knowing she needed to leave soon to give her time to get through security.

Michael, she realized. He needed to know where she'd be, and that she was ok.

She typed a quick message, "Hey, Veronica and Aldo need my help in Montana. I'm flying out tonight to meet them there. I'll let you know when I land."

Ten minutes later, when she was on the drive to the airport, his reply came, "Ok."

Confused, "Ok?" she thought. He wasn't a man of many words, but she'd honestly expected a little push back. A little, "No, it's too dangerous." Sure, she would have gone anyways, but it was the principle of it; the very un-Michael like response to her going into a dangerous situation that was bothering her.

She parked at the airport and typed back, "You alright?"

He was still typing, so she got out, slinging her bag over her shoulder and locking the car, "Lot on my mind I guess. Be safe."

"Ok, I will. Love you." She sent back, getting the hint that he wasn't in the mood to talk, and that was ok. As long as he knew where she was headed and that she was safe, the rest didn't matter right now.

"Love you too," lit up her screen as she marched across the dark parking lot, the cooler evening air against her bare arms causing goosebumps to rise. The security line wasn't terribly long, she realized, as she stepped inside. The blast of warmer air felt good at first, but after a few moments of standing in line she started to sweat. All the adrenaline from earlier; the rush after rush of being told she was being stalked, her friends were in danger, she had to make a hasty trip to save them…it all came crashing down at once. She was exhausted, too hot, and emotionally overwhelmed.

Her bag felt twice as heavy on her shoulder, and she gratefully slung it off onto the conveyor belt, placing it in one of the gray tubs. She used the hair tie on her wrist to whip up a quick pony-tail, getting her hair off her neck and relishing in the coolness. Her flight boarded around ten, so she had a good hour and a half once she was past security to get something to eat, which was a blessing considering that dinner hadn't happened yet. Her stomach growled at the possibilities as she looked at the map of her terminal, trying to decide what sounded best. A Chinese place that was close to her gate won out over the others, and she started heading that way, beginning to process everything that had happened.

She had people stalking her. People who took pictures of her. She hadn't let herself really process that fact until now, since she was at work when Michael had told her. It had been an unusually busy day and she was grateful for it; the constant stream of inmates coming and going provided a nice distraction from the threat to her personal safety. But now, strolling through the airport, she let herself acknowledge the truth of her situation, and her throat constricted, stomach sinking.

To make things worse, Veronica and Aldo were in the house with a potentially dangerous man…or at the very least, an apathetic accomplice to Lincoln's sentencing. Who knew what he or a Company agent would do if she didn't get there on time, or if they decided to do an extra security sweep. What was keeping Steadman from calling his body guards anyways? The whole thing had her tired mind spinning.

She ordered her food in a daze and took it to what would be her seat for the next hour. The warm, salty food provided some level of comfort, but made her slightly nauseas at the same time. She was all mixed up.

She put her food down a moment and took a mental step back, reminding herself that she was totally justified in being a little off-kilter. She was facing some pretty terrible situations, one right after the other, with no real end in sight. Not a guaranteed one anyways. It was enough to wear anyone down. But despite it all, she was doing everything she could to make it right, and that was what allowed her to keep moving forward. Action. Doing the right thing.

With that heroic thought in mind, she finished her food and tossed the container, boarded her flight, and mentally prepared herself as best as she could for what tomorrow might hold.

XXXXX

"You got any pillows?" Veronica asked unenthusiastically. Her belongings were all still at the hotel, but they were going to have to make due here for the night. She was grateful for the blue sweater she'd worn; it would be comfortable to sleep in at least, but her jeans…not so much. If she was alone, she'd be sleeping in her underwear, no questions asked, but considering that she was in the company of a strange man and a guy who, at one point, was almost her father-in-law, that was out of the question. She'd have to settle for undoing the button once she was under the blanket.

"Closet down the hall," Terrence answered.

She trudged down the hall; this was NOT how this was supposed to go. She was basically having a sleepover with Aldo and the man that was causing all of their problems. The closet was stuffed with extra blankets and pillows, so she grabbed several of each and brought them out to the couch. It was an L shaped couch, plenty big enough for both her and Aldo to sleep lying down.

"So," Terrence started, amused, "when is your friend getting here?"

Flatly, "Tomorrow. She's in the air now."

Eyebrows raised, "Huh, she's actually coming."

"I told you she would."

"I know, but not many people would do that for another."

Veronica shrugged, "She's a good friend."

It looked like he wanted to say something but held back, so she ventured instead, "Have you considered the offer any more?"

His eyes were that of a defeated man, a hopeless one, "I can't leave. You don't know what they'd do to me…as if they haven't done enough already. They're like a web, these people. The harder you struggle, the worse it gets."

She fluffed a blanket out onto the couch, draping it over where she would sleep and tossed one to Aldo, "So, what? You're going to live here alone, forever?"

He met her gaze, "Perhaps I don't believe that you'll actually be able to get out. Your faith in your friend is stronger than mine has ever been in anyone…aside from my sister, I suppose."

Tossing a pillow towards the end of the couch, "She'll be here, and you can come with us." She saw his skeptical expression and decided to be real with him.

She plopped down on the edge of the couch and faced him, "I wish I could promise that it'll all work out in the end. I can't. But, this may be your only chance to try," she shrugged, "that's what we're offering you. A chance."

His eyes remained fixed on her for a long moment. Though his stare was a bit hazy, unfocused, she could see that he was thinking about it. They all sat in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.

Eventually, with a yawn, she started crawling under the blanket as Terrence got up, shuffling upstairs and back to bed. Aldo situated himself on the opposite side of the couch, briefly making eye contact with Veronica before turning the lamp out. He gave her a nod, indicating he was hopeful that Terrence would agree. She returned the gesture just before the lamp went out, and closed her eyes, folded her hands, and said a silent prayer that it would all be ok.


	28. Chapter 28

A/N: Chapters are getting longer XD can't help myself, I guess. Huge thank you for the reviews and follows, and for everyone still reading!

XXXXX

Sara's alarm blared at four o'clock. It took everything in her to open her eyes, groping around in the dark to find her phone and silence it. Her flight had gotten in just after midnight, so it was a cruelly short night of sleep, but she wanted to get out to the house as soon as possible, knowing that it was a several hour drive, and she didn't want to risk being too late.

In a daze, she got dressed and grabbed her bag of belongings, checked out of the hotel and hit the button on the key fob, unlocking her rental car. There was a travel center just across the street from her hotel, so she gratefully stopped by and picked up a coffee and some snacks, not knowing if or when she'd get an actual meal again.

The drive was long and lonely, the warm coffee and the radio working in tandem to keep her awake. That, and her ever increasing anxiety about what she might be walking into. She'd tried texting Veronica before leaving the travel center, but the message never delivered, so she assumed her phone was dead.

Her mind wandered to the lull of music and road noise. She realized with a jolt that Michael was going to be back to Chicago…tomorrow. The realization caused an eruption of butterflies in her stomach, along with a general sense of worry. First, she didn't even know if she'd be back by then…he could always stay in a hotel, but she'd feel bad about it, knowing that he came home wanting to see her and having her not be there.

She'd cross that bridge when they got to it though. For now, her concern was getting to the house and opening the door, praying that she and Veronica and Aldo would all be able to make it out safely.

XXXXX

Veronica woke up slowly. It was still dark inside the house; she could hear Aldo softly snoring across from her and saw the subtle glow from the microwave and oven in the kitchen. She squinted as much as she could, and was able to discern the numbers, reading 5:58.

She gently rested her head back onto her pillow and rolled over onto her back, trying to be quiet and not wake anyone else. With her hands folded on her belly, she tried to decide when an acceptable time to get up was…and really hoped that Sara was on her way.

Her cell phone was next to her, dead as a doornail, but she picked it up anyways, trying to wake it up. Its black screen stared back at her, confirming that it really was out of juice. She hated this. She trusted Sara to be on her way, but she wanted to know what time. That simple confirmation text of, "Hey, I'm on my way," would have given her great peace of mind. Sara would have sent one, she knew that, but without a charger that was kind of a moot point.

What if she hadn't made it? What if her flight was delayed or her rental car got a flat? What if she got lost and couldn't find the place – it was a bit out of the way…

She clenched her hands into fists, knowing she was going to drive herself crazy if she didn't get up and move around. As silently as she could, she peeled the blanket back and swung her legs down off the couch and onto the cool, hard floor.

In the kitchen, she wandered around and started looking for coffee fixings. There wasn't a pot anywhere on the counter, but she found a French press in one of the cabinets. Exhaling with relief, she pulled it off the shelf and found grounds in a canister on the counter. She grabbed a pot and filled it with water, putting it on the stove and waited for it to boil.

The moon was full and bright, illuminating the dining area through a large, open window. Without any lights on, she was still able to see quite well. There was a beautiful back deck, overlooking the mountains. For a split second, she anticipated going out there and enjoying her coffee in the fresh air before remembering that all the doors were locked. Having a back deck like that with a gorgeous view was just cruel if you couldn't even enjoy it.

Small bubbles formed in the bottom of the pan and she scooped some grounds into the French press. Moments later, when it was a rolling boil, she poured the water in, going to the fridge and looking for any sort of milk or cream. She found some milk and gave it a sniff, recoiling and nearly gagging at the smell. Who did Terrence's shopping anyways? She thought with a huff.

She pressed the plunger down and found a mug to use, pouring herself a cup. There was plenty of coffee left, since she had a feeling Aldo would want some. She took a sip and closed her eyes in pleasure, feeling the warmth spread through her hollow stomach. She never did have dinner the day before…or lunch for that matter. Her breakfast sandwich in the car ride over felt like a lifetime ago.

Since everyone else was still asleep, she decided to snoop around the kitchen a bit, searching for some kind of sustenance. She opened the fridge again and realized that it was full of produce. Literally…full of nothing but produce. Did this man seriously live on smoothies alone? She glanced at the counter and saw a massive container of protein powder - so apparently, yes he did. Smoothies and protein shakes forever. She shuddered at the thought.

She dug deeper into all the cabinets and finally wound up looking in the freezer. Her hopes weren't high, she figured it would be more frozen fruit, but at the bottom, there was a sleeve of bagels. Why a man with non-functional teeth would have a bagel of all things, she didn't know, but she'd never been so happy to see one in her life. She pulled two out and set them on a plate to thaw a bit before she popped them into the toaster, which again raised so many questions, why did he have a toaster? This whole place and the man who inhabited it was a mystery to her. She couldn't wait to get out.

XXXXX

Michael had called one last meeting with the members of the Bargain team before he headed out of town. His coworkers were all assembled around the long, rectangular table in the conference room on their floor, with Michael at the head of the table. His laptop was projected onto the screen behind him, full of images illustrating the problem they were all trying to solve.

At some point, and he wasn't sure exactly when, he'd slid into a leadership role of sorts within the team. He was grateful for them – they were some of the best minds he'd ever worked with, and they respected him. He'd been afraid that they would've treated him like a black sheep; the new employee with a criminal record. His record may be clean now, but he didn't fool himself into believing that any of these people hadn't seen his face plastered all over the news. But if they knew who he was, they never said a word.

The meeting lasted several hours, he had to stress the importance of several key issues that needed to be resolved before more progress could be made. Their intelligence and enthusiasm to continue moving forward had a feeling of guilt settling deep within his bones. Christina's offer echoed in the back of his mind. Could he really sell these people out like that? Disregard all the work they'd done before he even came here, finish the project himself, and get all the credit?

"Michael?" one of them asked, obviously repeating herself, snapping him back to the present.

"Sorry, what?"

"I asked if we'd be able to reach you while you're gone?"

"Oh, yes, I'll be reachable by phone or email. Feel free to contact me with any questions."

They all nodded and started getting up, packing all of their laptops and notes up before heading out of the conference room.

It was around eleven and he decided to head to an early lunch. His flight left at five that evening, and his bag was already in the car. He'd have to leave work a few hours early to get to the airport on time, but that was fine with Henry and everyone else.

On his walk downstairs to grab a bite, he called Sara, "Hey, how're things?"

"Well, I'm almost there…I'm kinda nervous."

Understanding, "Just be careful, ok? Open the door and then get out of there."

"I will. If something happens and I can't get back by tomorrow to pick you up, I'm really sorry."

His heart fluttered, honestly surprised that she even had the capacity to worry about him right now, "I'll be fine," he reassured, "I can always find a hotel. Please just…worry about yourself right now."

Sarcastically, "Coming from you, that's funny."

He chuckled, realizing the irony, "Fair point. A little role reversal going on."

"Just a little," she laughed, "alright, I'm almost there, I better go so I can find the place."

He suddenly felt nervous as well, knowing that she was about to walk into the lion's den, "Be safe."

XXXXX

Sara turned right onto the extremely long driveway of the Steadman mansion. It was blacktop and super smooth - she could barely hear the tires rolling across it. She gripped the wheel tighter and tried to slow her racing heart, wishing that Veronica's phone was still working to let her know she was there. Without being able to communicate, the only thing she could do was walk up and open the door, praying that someone didn't shoot her in the process.

She parked next to what she assumed was their rental car and got out, doing a quick glance around her, trying to get rid of the feeling that someone might be watching her. When she walked up the porch steps, she peeked into the window and let out a sigh of relief. She could see Veronica sitting on the couch, mug in hand, and smiled to herself.

She knocked a few times to let them know she was there, and Veronica's head whipped around, a huge smile appearing on her face.

She rushed to the door as Sara opened it, "Oh thank GOD, thank God," she gushed as she ran outside and threw herself at Sara.

"Haha, easy there," Sara laughed, hugging her tight as she tried to maintain her balance.

Veronica squeezed her one last time with an exhale of utter relief before turning around, "Aldo, she's here, come on we gotta go."

Aldo's hand went to his hip, confirming his gun was still there, and then held Veronica's gaze, darting his eyes up the stairs to where Terrence was.

"What?" Sara questioned, brows furrowing.

"Give me a second," she replied, leaving Sara with her mouth agape in the doorway, wondering what could possibly be keeping them.

"Terrence?" Veronica called up the stairs. Sara waited with baited breath, hoping to finally catch a glimpse of the man responsible for so much chaos and death.

He shuffled to the top of the stairs, and Sara took in every detail. He looked sad…lonely, like the shell of a man.

"She's here, and we're leaving. Are you coming with us?"

Sara couldn't help but recoil in shock, taking a small step back. Come with us?

After a moment and a sigh, "No."

Aldo asked, "Why not?"

"Self-preservation," he answered slowly, "they're keeping me alive here. If I step outside those doors there's a good chance they'll kill me, and you can't convince me otherwise. I need to stay on their good side and have them protect me. This scandal coming to light doesn't guarantee my freedom."

Veronica pressed, "Protection from who?"

His eyes grew darker and Sara suddenly felt endangered, "People who threaten to disrupt the balance of power, the way things are. People like you."

As if on cue, Sara heard the subtle hum of a car engine crawling up the driveway. She turned back and saw a dark S.U.V heading up towards them at a high rate of speed.

Aldo, wide-eyed, "We gotta go. Now."

The three of them ran out the door and to Sara's car.

"I'll drive," Aldo offered, and Sara gratefully tossed her keys to him, figuring a car chase between two Company agents would be a fairer fight than a Company agent against her.

Sara took the passenger side and Veronica got in the back.

"Buckle up," he ordered as he peeled out of the landing, heading straight for the S.U.V. The driveway wasn't wide enough for two cars, not by a long shot, and Sara sat with every muscle tensed, bracing for impact. They were playing a game of chicken, both cars headed straight for each other. Her eyes skimmed their surroundings; one side of the road was sprinkled with trees, pretty big ones…ones she didn't want them crashing into. The other side was grassier, but not smooth; the grass was thick and fairly tall, concealing the ground beneath. It could be rocky and rutted, and they'd never know.

"Aldo?" she squeaked out, wondering what he had in mind to get them out of this.

Without taking his eyes off the road, "Grab the gun," he ordered, tilting his hip up slightly, giving her better access. She reached across and pulled it out of his holster, "if I tell you to, shoot at them out the window, hit the tires if you can."

Hit the tires? She thought with a sinking stomach, remembering her ill-attempted target practice.

"And hold on," he ordered them both, the cars getting uncomfortably close now. When she was sure they were about to crash, he swerved off the driveway into the tall grass, car thumping across uneven ground, the grass slowing them down. Sara looked back and saw the S.U.V screeching to a halt, whipping around and starting to follow them down the driveway. Aldo hit the gas hard to get back up onto the blacktop.

"Everyone ok?" he asked.

"Fine," Veronica screeched from back.

"Good," Sara confirmed, happy to be back on solid pavement.

The agents behind them gained speed, approaching fast in the rearview mirror. Sara held the weapon in her hand familiarizing herself with its feel, preparing herself to use it. It was like Aldo read her thoughts, because not a moment later, he hit the button to open her window, "Alright, Sara," he nodded.

She took the part of her seatbelt that crossed her chest and put it behind her, allowing her more freedom to peek her upper body out the window and fire the gun. She heard the ping of bullet hitting metal, meaning she'd hit the car, but not the tire. Pleased that she hit anything at all, she fired again, but a second later a head popped out of the S.U.V's passenger window, a man in a black suit also wielding a gun.

"Shit," she slinked back into the car, hearing the bullet holes entering their bumper.

"Again," Aldo encouraged.

Fearing a bullet to the head, she peeked out again, taking an extra second to aim at the black tires moving impossibly fast. They had to be running out of driveway soon.

She pulled the trigger again and couldn't believe when she heard a satisfying pop and hiss, the right front tire flattening like a pancake, slowing the vehicle behind them down.

"Got it!" Aldo confirmed, looking in the rearview, "nice shot."

Relieved, "Thanks," she snuck back in and rolled up her window.

Veronica was looking behind them, watching the S.U.V. sinking further and further into the distance, "Geez, Sara, been doing target practice lately?"

With a nervous, adrenaline filled laugh, "Yea, actually."

"Well it paid off," Aldo praised, taking a quick left turn out of the driveway.

They all sat in silence for a moment, processing everything. Sara finally asked, "Think we lost them?"

He sighed, "Those guys, yea, but I'm guessing there's more around being called for back-up. We should look for an alternate route back to the airport."

"Here," Sara offered, pulling her phone out of her pocket, "I'll start looking for one."

Veronica nodded, "Glad someone has a charged phone, otherwise we'd be screwed."

"Wait," Sara started, "do you guys have your I.D.s? Won't be able to fly home without it," she realized, glancing down at her own belongings between her feet, knowing that her two companions had nothing with them anymore.

Veronica patted her front jean pockets, "I.D., credit card, and keys – I never leave them outta my sight when I'm traveling."

Aldo confirmed as well, "Wallet in my back pocket, we're good to go…right? Nothing at the hotel you need, Veronica?"

"Heck no, just clothes and a toothbrush are there. All that is replaceable. We need to keep moving and get home."

He nodded, "Say no more."

XXXXX

Michael arrived at the airport in Miami and headed for security. He had his new I.D. in hand along with his boarding pass when he got called up to the T.S.A agent.

The agent was a young man; the look in his eyes let Michael know right away that he was a sharp kid, his hazel eyes locking on Michael's, his body language becoming guarded.

"Hello," Michael ventured, trying to keep his cool.

"Hi," he replied quickly, "Mister…Scofield," he looked up again, searching his face.

"There a problem?"

"No, just uh," he held up a hand, "just wait here a second," he stood up and wandered over to another agent, both of them casting glances his way.

The other agent was a large, black man; his head was shaved, his arms muscled, "Mr. Scofield, please come with me."

"This is a misunderstanding," he started.

"Come with me, won't take long," the man insisted, and Michael decided it easier to just comply, hoping they would accept his explanation.

The larger agent escorted him into the office for security. He took a seat behind the desk, "Michael Scofield, sounds like a lot of people are looking for you."

"Not anymore," he replied, holding the strap of his bag tighter on his shoulder, "I was cleared."

Skeptically, "Is that right?"

"Yes," he insisted, "call whoever you need to, the F.B.I isn't looking for me anymore."

"I will," he challenged, picking up the phone.

Michael tried to slow his thumping heart, to stop his palms from sweating. He was clear…right? No way there was still a warrant out for him. He was clear. He was free. Those reminders did little to ease his growing anxiety.

"Ok, thank you sir, sorry to bother," the agent hung up and sighed, "my apologies, Mr. Scofield."

He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, "No problem, I can certainly understand the mistake."

"Well, I appreciate that," the agent smiled now, "I don't know how you managed to escape all those charges," he shook his head in disbelief, "let me take you back to security and get you all checked through."

"Thank you," he replied simply, feeling the rush of relief still flooding his veins.

He made it through the rest of the way without incident. He shouldn't be surprised at what had happened; his face and name had been plastered all over the news, but since he'd been cleared by The Company, he had to admit that he'd let his guard down. He was genuinely surprised by the look of horror on the young man's face, realizing who he was. That was something he'd have to get used to for a while, everyone in the outside world still thinking he was a criminal.

The incident also confirmed something; he really was free. Christina held up her end of the deal. That confirmation gave him even more to think about; he had another deal on the table, and not a lot of time to figure out his answer. This time instead of his own safety being threatened by a brain tumor, it was Sara's safety hanging in the balance.

Sara, who he'd heard from earlier, and knew they were on the road and almost to the airport, although it sounded like they had had some trouble. She didn't get into details over text, but promised she'd fill him in once they were in person. They still had to book flights home but were hoping there would be room on a flight that night, meaning he could hopefully see her later that day. The thought had his spirits lifted and an excited, yet nervous energy churning up his stomach.

He was relieved she was relatively safe, for now at least. Oddly enough, having her away from home and walking into the fire, had him more at ease than the thought of her being home alone; a sitting duck, just waiting for Company agents to break into her apartment. Now that she was with Aldo and Veronica again, and they were away from danger, he felt a bit more at ease and could move on to the next piece of business; Aldo needed to confess, and they had to get Lincoln out of Fox River.

He hadn't allowed himself to think of his brother much over the past week or so, nothing beyond the superficial thoughts passing through his mind, acknowledging that Lincoln was still in prison. He didn't want to dive any deeper than that on a daily basis. It tortured him, and he knew if he allowed himself to be pulled down into those dark waters without fighting them, he might never come up for air. He had to keep them at bay, and so that's what he did.

But today, he had the time; hours before his flight and hours on a plane to be alone with his thoughts, but he still fought the notion. The minute his mind wandered to Lincoln and what he might be doing right now…what he might be feeling, he immediately shut it down, a self-protective mechanism that was proving difficult to turn off.

He wondered if Lincoln had any of those too; ways of shutting out the bad thoughts…he wondered what went through Lincoln's mind that might need to be blocked, shoved away into the deeper corners of his awareness.

Their differences amused him sometimes, especially when it came to how their minds worked; how they could be similar in some ways yet so completely different in others. They operated on totally different wavelengths, yet somehow could still be best friends, a perfect complement for each other, and he missed him.

When he got to Chicago, he of course wanted to visit him, but didn't know if that was a realistic possibility. He'd have to show his face at Fox River, and he'd made more than a few enemies there; trying to gain access to his brother as a visitor might put them both in a tough spot. Maybe a phone call would suffice for the time being. If Aldo confessed and everything went as planned, Lincoln would be out of there in a little over a week anyways.

If everything went as planned.

XXXXX

"I have three seats, but they aren't together, is that ok?" the blonde gate agent asked Veronica.

She looked at Sara and Aldo, who both nodded eagerly, "Yea, that's fine."

They all handed over their I. D's and Veronica swiped her credit card – they'd figure out the money later, right now she just wanted to make sure they had seats on that flight.

"Ok, you'll be departing in three hours out of gate B21, and you'll land in Chicago at 7:00pm local time."

"Perfect," Veronica agreed, taking her card back and sticking it in her pocket.

They all grabbed their boarding passes and made their way to the gate.

Veronica's stomach growled, the bagel from six o'clock that morning long gone, "I don't know about you guys, but I'm starving."

"Me too," Sara agreed.

"Same here," Aldo conferred, "wanna split a pizza?" he asked, pointing to the Italian place close to their gate.

She salivated at the thought, "Sounds good to me."

Sara nodded in agreement and they all walked over.

"It's on me," Aldo offered and went up to the counter to order, Veronica and Sara thanked him and went to find a table.

They found one by the window and sat down, the late afternoon sun casting its orange glow onto the sides of their faces.

"So," Veronica started, "have you heard from Michael? He on his way?"

She nodded, "Yup he's at the airport in Miami, waiting."

"Will he get to Chicago when we do?"

"Uh," she glanced at her phone, looking for the text he'd sent, "I guess so, yea. He'll land about a half hour before we do."

"Good, we can all ride home together, catch up."

"Mhmm," she agreed, sounding a bit distant.

"Unless," she offered slowly, "you'd rather Aldo and I get a separate place to stay?"

Surprised, "What? Oh, no, I didn't mean that. Michael's just been a little…upset lately. About a lot of things," Veronica watched as Sara reached to fiddle with the necklace she used to wear, only finding empty space and putting her hand back down, "And I know Aldo has been helping us and everything, but I'm not sure if Michael is ready to see him yet."

Veronica nodded, understanding, "Maybe I could invite Aldo to stay with me? I'm not naïve enough to think The Company isn't still after me, but if they really are watching my apartment, they'll know he's there too. That might be enough of a deterrent," she reached across the table to grab Sara's hand and gave her a wink, "and it would give you and Michael a little alone time."

Sara's cheeks turned pink and Veronica smiled. Sara answered, "If you're sure you feel safe there…although," she scoffed, "I don't know if my apartment is any better."

Tilting her head, "What do you mean?"

"Oh," Sara realized, "uh, the Company is watching me too. The General gave Michael a bunch of candid pictures of me," she looked down at her hands, "driving, at work, and at home."

Veronica's emerald eyes widened, "Wow."

"Yea," she looked down, "hence the target practice."

"What do they want with you?"

She shrugged, "Leverage for Michael, I guess. They want him to stay working for them for as long as they can keep him around."

"Damn…I guess being a genius has its disadvantages," with a smirk, "tell him to start acting like an idiot and maybe they'll let him go."

That earned a chuckle from Sara as Aldo approached carrying a pizza and bread sticks, along with three drinks.

"Thank you," they both said in tandem, opening up the box and digging in.

"So," Veronica looked at Aldo, "we were thinking you could come stay with me for now, if that's ok? And Michael can stay with Sara."

A flicker of confusion crossed his face, but he recovered from it quickly and shrugged, "Sure, whatever works best."

Veronica nodded, and Sara mouthed a silent, "Thank you," her way.

Veronica grabbed a breadstick and dunked it into the sauce, "So, Aldo, when are you gonna confess?"

Sara choked on her drink, trying not to laugh, "Way to be subtle, Veronica."

"Sorry," she laughed, "someone had to ask."

Aldo, now smiling too, thought for a moment, "Is tomorrow too soon? I feel like I'm not prepared, it's like," he paused, searching for the right words, "it's such a big step, and I've been holding my cards so close. The thought of putting everything out there without being 100% prepared, I just…I don't wanna mess this up."

Veronica considered, "Don't want to overthink it either, though."

"Right, I just wish there was someone to bounce everything off of," he thought a moment, "besides you guys, of course."

Sara sat up a little straighter, "What about that judge you talked to?"

Veronica raised her eyebrows, "Judge Davis?"

"Yea, the one who signed the warrant. Maybe you could talk everything through with him first?"

"True," she considered, looking over at Aldo who shrugged agreeably, "yea, that's true, he could tell us the best news source to use, how to lay everything out the best…make sure we have everything we need."

Sara nodded, "So maybe you two can do that tomorrow? And if he feels you're ready, you can contact the news station."

Aldo set his drink down and exhaled, "Sounds like as good a plan as any."

XXXXXX

Their plane landed in Chicago and Sara turned her phone off airplane mode. Sure enough, she had a text from Michael saying he'd landed about forty minutes before. The butterflies came back, ready to see him again in person.

She got off and met back up with Aldo and Veronica inside the airport, since their seats hadn't been together. She realized that even though they'd be staying in different apartments, Aldo and Veronica would still have to ride with them back to Sara's apartment. She wasn't sure how Michael would feel about that.

"Hey Veronica, wanna come with me to the bathroom real quick?"

"Sure," she looked at Aldo, "wait here?"

"I'll be here," he confirmed as the two went off in search of the lady's room.

"So," Sara began once they were out of earshot, "I realized your car is still at my place, and I can give you and Aldo a ride but…do you think that'll be ok? With Michael I mean."

Veronica thought for a moment, "I mean…I don't think either one of them want to drag up the past. You know how Michael is, he's reserved and doesn't like confrontation unless he has to. For as short as the drive is, I think it'll be ok."

"Ok," she sighed, comforted by her friend's assessment, "do you mind if I jump ahead a little bit and meet up with him first? That way I can at least give him a heads up."

She nodded, "Works for me."

They met back up with Aldo, and all headed out past security and towards baggage claim, where they'd told Michael to meet. None of them had a checked bag, but it was an easy place to find each other and it was close to where Sara had parked her car.

"Alright," Sara started, "why don't you two wait here and I'll go find Michael."

"Ok," Aldo agreed, though a little confused.

When Sara broke away from the group, she suddenly felt vulnerable, like a kid being dropped off at school for the first time. Knowing that she'd been followed over the past week or two didn't help anything, but she did her best to brush aside the feeling and pulled out her cell, reading a text from Michael that told her which carousel he was by.

It didn't take her long to spot him; he was leaning casually against the wall, a bag by his feet. He was wearing black slacks and a gray button up shirt, with a black and steel-gray tie that complemented the look nicely. His head was down, looking at his phone when she approached.

"Well, don't you look handsome."

His head snapped up, a smile appearing as he opened his arms. She walked into them eagerly and wrapped her arms around him.

After a moment, she brought her head back and looked at him again, smoothing his tie with her hand, "You clean up nice."

He looked down, as if surprised, "Oh…yea," a small smile, "I had to leave right from work. But I guess compared to prison blues and hospital gowns, anything is a step up."

She chuckled, and her gaze met his blue eyes. He stared into her with that look of his, the one that made her feel exposed, yet deeply loved at the same time.

"I missed you," he said softly.

That simple admission along with the intensity in his eyes had her feeling vulnerable. She couldn't muster a serious response; saying that she'd missed him too would be an understatement, and she didn't trust herself to open that door of emotions right now. They still had to make it home; she couldn't break yet, so she went for humor instead.

"You did?" she asked with a smirk.

His arms around her tightened, he pulled her closer and planted a long kiss on her forehead. She closed her eyes and exhaled, feeling the safety within his arms, the comfort. Her walls began to crack despite her best efforts; every brick that she'd had to put up since she'd left Miami, they all started to crumble. The overwhelming stress of finding Steadman, being stalked, having to rescue Veronica and Aldo…it all released itself in a wave, now that she had something solid to lean on.

But she still wasn't ready to let it all go. Not here. Not until they were alone.

"Michael," she pulled them apart slightly, "I uh…" she didn't know how to ask about Aldo.

"What is it?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

"Aldo and Veronica are here with me, and they need a ride back to my apartment. If you're not comfortable riding together I could always drop you off and come back-"

"-they're here?" he asked, looking around.

Slowly, "Yea, they're waiting over there," she gestured vaguely behind them. He saw them, because when she looked back she saw something different in his eyes; a smolder, but it was different than the one she'd been the recipient of. This one had an undercurrent of anger, and of hurt.

"Michael if it's too much we don't have to-"

"-no," he shook his head and sighed, "I have to face him eventually."

She paused a moment, waiting to see if he would reconsider, but he simply bent down to pick up his bag, and waited for her to nod and start walking towards the others.

The two of them approached Aldo and Veronica, who were chatting, until they were only a few feet away. They paused, and everyone was silent. Michael and Aldo's eyes met, but neither said a word. The seconds ticked by as slowly as minutes.

Graciously, Veronica broke the ice and stepped forward, "Michael, so good to see you."

They hugged and he replied a genuine, "You too."

When they broke apart, Sara watched Aldo muster a bit of courage and nod, "Michael."

Michael looked at him a moment, and she could practically see the struggle going on in his mind. She relaxed a little when he decided to take the high road and nodded back, "Hello."

Silence followed. Sara could sense Michael's discomfort; the inner conflict. She knew the feeling. She didn't get along with her father very well either, though for different reasons. But without knowing the whole story of Michael's childhood and his relationship with Aldo, she couldn't help but feel bad for Aldo. He had been helping them, and she trusted him, but Michael obviously didn't. Not yet anyways – too many old wounds that hadn't healed, but she hoped that could change.

Knowing that they weren't getting anywhere staring at each other in awkward silence, Sara gestured towards the parking garage, "I'm parked this way, everybody ready?"

A chorus of "yeses" replied, and they were on their way. She could see a line of tension in Michael's shoulders as he walked next to her, with Veronica and Aldo behind them. Not caring anymore if Aldo knew they were together, she reached down and took his hand, a gesture of reassurance. He took it and glanced down at her with a slight smile. She squeezed his hand and saw the tension melt from his frame, just a little.

They got to her car, and Michael looked at her, questioning where he should sit.

"Why don't you take shot-gun," she said quietly, and he nodded, grateful. Aldo and Veronica took the back seat without question and they all buckled up.

Her engine revved to life, and the radio came on. She silently thanked herself for listening to music on the way to the airport; now she could avoid the internal struggle of whether or not to turn on the radio. The music distracted everyone from the discomfort, and they made it back to Sara's apartment without exchanging words, all lost in their own thoughts after a harrowing couple of days.

Sara parked and they all went their separate ways; Veronica thanked her for everything as she and Aldo took off, heading back to her place, promising to be in touch tomorrow. Michael grabbed his bag and stepped out, following Sara up to her building.

He was more quiet than usual, which said something, so as they approached her door, she asked, "Doing ok?"

He looked at her with guarded confusion.

"Michael, you haven't said a word since the airport."

After a moment, "Guess I didn't have anything to say to him."

She stuck her key in the lock, "He's been a big help. I know you're not ready to make up and have a big family reunion, but if you could just talk to him-"

"-about what?" he interjected as they stepped inside.

"About anything! Talk to him about the weather and he'd be happy, he just wants to get a foot in the door again, to have a chance at a relationship with you and Lincoln."

Icily, "Sounds like you know him better than I do."

"Michael," she said tiredly, "I…you know what, nevermind." It had been a long day and she was in no mood to argue, especially when he was still fully guarded against Aldo. She'd said her piece, and was ready for bed, "I'm gonna go shower and get ready for bed. Make yourself at home."

She took her bag to the bathroom and shut the door, exhaling a sigh. This isn't how she'd wanted the evening to go. She turned the water on, nice and hot, and stepped in, feeling the water beat down on her weary body. That four a.m. alarm was a long time ago.

She hated having even little disagreements with Michael, but reminded herself that they were both stressed out and tired, facing a lot of challenges; it would pass. She had to believe that. All she really wanted was to forget all of their problems and snuggle up next to him under the covers, cocooning herself from the rest of the world.

When she stepped out of the bathroom wearing gray sweatpants and a soft white shirt, she found Michael in the living room. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at her shelves, inspecting its contents. She smiled at the sight, wondering what he saw in all of her things. She snuck up behind him and wound her arms around his waist, laying her head between his shoulder blades.

"Why don't you come get some rest," she suggested, planting a kiss on his back. She knew his mind didn't want to shut off, but needed to.

Reluctantly, he turned around and she started loosening his tie. She slid it off and tossed it on the couch, surprised when he blurted out, "I know it's not your fault."

After a moment, "Ah, what?"

"Everything," he took her hands, "you've been nothing but helpful and supportive and I've been…taking my issues out on you. Both of my parents are suddenly alive again and wanting to be a part of my life. I spent years figuring out how to build a life on my own, without them, and now that they just wanna stroll back in it's…it's a lot to process."

She stayed silent, listening.

He sighed, "I know that Aldo has been helpful, and I need to work with him to get Lincoln out again, I just…" he shook his head.

"How about tomorrow after he and Veronica talk to the Judge, we all meet up together, ok?" she suggested, "You don't have to be alone with him and have a heart to heart, just talking with him at all is a good start."

His eyes suddenly looked tired. She could see his resolve chipping away, little by little, as he replied, "Ok."


	29. Chapter 29

Michael woke up with Sara curled up under his arm. Her back was tucked tightly against his stomach, his arm draped over her waist. She was still asleep, breathing soft and slow. He closed his eyes again and felt the easy rise and fall of her breathing against him; his lonely apartment in Miami felt like a hazy memory, and nothing existed beyond the bed of warmth and comfort he was in.

He moved his head closer against her back, inhaling a mixture of whatever shampoo she'd used the night before, and a smell that was simply her; a warm sweetness that he'd spent far too long without. It was hard for him to imagine life without it; a life where he woke up alone and got ready, went to work and came back to an apartment that belonged only to him. Being alone never felt strange when he was in Miami, but looking at that life from his present situation made it seem insufferable.

He lay awake, but with his eyes closed for a while. After admitting that there was no way he'd be able to fall back asleep he considered getting up, but Sara was still breathing steadily under his arm. He realized she must be making up for a lot of restless nights. The fact that those restless nights were ultimately because of him didn't elude him - she'd been working hard on the whole Lincoln situation and keeping up with her day job while he'd been simply doing his day job. The least he could do was make her breakfast.

With that resolution in mind, he now had to gamble with his chances of getting out of bed without waking her up. He slowly lifted the weight of his arm off of her and rolled away and onto his other side. She stirred a moment, giving a small groan of protest before adjusting the covers with closed eyes and settling back in.

He looked at her for another moment, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth, seeing her face relaxed and peaceful.

Softly, he padded into the kitchen and started rummaging around, finding eggs in the fridge and bread to make some toast. He started a pot of coffee and got breakfast going. He glanced at the clock and realized it was almost nine, which surprised him considering they were both pretty early risers. Granted, they'd been up late after getting back from the airport, but still- she must've been really tired.

Did he dare wake her up? He argued with himself for minutes. On the one hand, she needed to catch up on sleep, but a sense of urgency started creeping on him as he listened to the coffee pot drip, knowing that they still had a lot to do today and in the days coming if they were going to get Lincoln out.

A few minutes later, the eggs were done and so was the toast. He plated them and poured two mugs of coffee, watching the steam roll off of everything and evaporate into the air. He glanced back towards the bedroom, knowing it was best for everyone involved if she was awake and ready to get moving, but not thrilled about the prospect of waking her. He braced himself for an angry morning Sara…if that was a thing; looking at the mugs on the counter, he decided to take one with him, a peace offering if needed.

He opened the door quietly; the morning light was brighter now and illuminating the room despite the curtains. She was still laying on her side, a few loose strands of hair pressed against her face, her eyes still peacefully closed.

"Sara," he whispered, setting the mug down on the nightstand and crouching to her eye level. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder and saw her squeeze her eyes shut more firmly.

"No," she mumbled out, hugging the covers tighter.

Her expression made him smile, "Wake up, I made breakfast," he insisted, "and I've got coffee for you right here."

Slowly, one eye opened and blinked against the bright light, "Here, here?"

He picked it up again, "Right here."

She sighed in resignation, blinking her eyes again and slowly sitting up, taking the mug from him.

"You sleep ok?" he asked, wondering if worrying thoughts had kept her awake until the early morning, causing her to sleep late.

"Fantastic, actually," she replied, "making up for lost time I guess."

He smirked, thinking that there was a lot more than just sleep they needed to catch up on.

"Well, I'm glad. I didn't want to wake you, but I figured we better get ready for the day."

Confused, "What time is it?"

"A little after nine."

Her eyes widened, "It is? Geez I haven't slept that late in a long time."

He shrugged, "Like you said, must've needed it," he started to get up, "ready for breakfast?"

"Right," she nodded and got out of bed, following him to the kitchen.

He grabbed the two plates and set them on the table, watching as she sat down across from him and wasted no time digging in.

"Don't tell me they starved you in Montana," he teased.

She looked up with her fork mid-air, like a kid with their hand in a cookie jar, "No, we had pizza last night."

He laughed.

"But in my defense," she continued, "there was a lot of stress and a lot of adrenaline. Hence why I want to do nothing but sleep and eat today…apparently" she chuckled at herself.

He nodded and smiled, "Can't argue with that...except we probably will have to do more than that."

"Right," she sighed, "I should text Veronica, see if they're meeting Judge Davis this morning."

"It'd be a good idea," he paused, sipping his coffee, "and I guess I should…" he couldn't even bring himself to say it.

"What?" she asked, watching him more closely.

Sighing, "I need to talk to Lincoln, but I don't know if I should go to Fox River and visit, or if I should call him or…"

She reached across the table and put a hand on his, the gesture grounding him, "Want me to go with you?"

He considered the offer for a moment; he had to hope that if Sara was with him, the guards and Warden Pope and anyone else who was around might show a bit more professional courtesy and not chew him out or deny him access. They all probably hated him at this point and with good reason; he'd embarrassed them in front of the entire nation.

On the other hand, he needed to talk to Lincoln alone, brother to brother.

He wasn't happy about it, but knew he'd made his choice, "Thank you, but I need to do this alone."

She nodded, understanding, "Well, if you want to go there, the car is all yours. I'll be here today until Veronica and Aldo are ready to meet up and discuss everything."

"Thank you."

He popped the last bite of toast into his mouth and she grabbed their plates, taking them over to the sink.

"So we haven't really talked about it yet," she started, running water to soak the dishes, "but what do you want to do when Aldo confesses? Do you want to be there…?" her voice trailed off.

To be honest, he hadn't consciously thought about it. In the back of his mind, he'd always assumed that he'd be there, but never thought to consider in what capacity he'd be involved. He'd prefer to be a fly on the wall, not wanting to bring himself and his own criminal record into the mix, tainting the confession of their father.

"Uh," he thought a moment, "I'd like to be there, but I don't want to go on the air. I'll leave that to Aldo and Veronica."

"Ok," she nodded, drying her hands on the towel, "I'd like to be there too, if that's ok."

He looked at her, aghast, "I…" he didn't even know what to say, "I wouldn't want to do it without you. You're a part of this too, Sara," he exhaled nervously, "whether you wanted to be or not."

She smirked, "I made my own choices. Like I told you at Fox River, it's in my nature to want to help," she shrugged, "sometimes that means dealing with a few consequences."

"Usually doesn't involve being stalked, but I take your point."

She raised her eyebrows, as if just remembering about that aspect, "Any news on that? General Krantz give you any threatening calls lately?"

Shaking his head, "Thankfully, no. I haven't heard from him since our last meeting."

Meeting was one way to put it, he thought, ignoring the bitter taste in his mouth. He subconsciously scanned the apartment, figuring out the best exit routes if one of his associates from The Company decided to pay them a visit.

She tilted her head, "You still worried?"

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't."

"Well," she sighed, "all we can do is focus on today. I'm gonna go get dressed – you should too; go see Lincoln before Veronica and Aldo are ready. Don't want them waiting on us," she dropped a kiss on top of his head as she walked by, towards the bedroom.

He knew she was right - couldn't let himself fall down the rabbit hole of worrying about their security when they had bigger fish to fry. One thing at a time. He pressed his hands on his knees, standing up and following her to the bedroom. When he walked in, she was moving her shirts on their hangers one by one to the left, examining each possibility.

"What do I wear to silently support someone who's confessing about a government conspiracy?" she asked with a straight face.

He chuckled and wrapped his arms around her from behind, looking over her shoulder at the options, "What about this?" he reached over her, gesturing to a black suit jacket with a matching pencil skirt.

"A power suit? Really?" she asked in disbelief.

"With a skirt," he defended himself, "we may not be on air but…I don't know. I want to look nice…feels like a big deal.

"It is a big deal," she agreed, more softly, "what shirt with it?"

He spotted a silky something further back on the rack and pulled it out, finding it to be a sleeveless emerald green V-neck, "How about this?"

She tilted her head and then nodded, "Fashion, really? Is there nothing you can't do?" she teased, pecking him on the lips as she took the clothes from him.

"That reminds me," he realized, "I have something for you."

She glanced back at him with a small laugh, "Ok?"

He got up and went over to his bag in the corner, sifting through it to find the small jewelry box, making sure it was still intact after traveling.

He turned around to find the shorts and t-shirt she'd slept in on the floor, and her shrugging the shirt on; the silky fabric resting easily at her hips. He sat down on the bed and gestured for her to do the same, trying to ignore the distracting view he was presented with. He handed her the box, small and black, with a delicate bow tied around it.

Her eyes narrowed as a small smile crept onto her lips. She took it from him and gently tugged at the bow, letting it unravel and fall into her lap. She lifted the lid and her curiosity turned to silent surprise.

"Michael," she traced her fingers over the delicate gold chain and the small black tusk pendant. When she finished her thought, she sounded dumbfounded, "it's perfect."

Satisfied and grinning, he helped her take it out of the box, "I'm glad you like it."

"Seriously, you have an eye for jewelry too?" she asked with a smile.

He pulled her hair back and swung it to one side, fastening the clasp behind her neck, "Yea, I guess so," he remembered is revelation from the day he picked it out, and decided it was safe to share, "although I realized something in the jewelry store."

"What?" she asked.

"That I have my mom to thank for that," he said slowly, realizing he'd called her mom for the first time in ages.

Sara must've realized the same thing, because she paused, searching his eyes a moment before her own softened, "She taught you?"

"She always had an eye for design, so fashion came naturally to her too. When I was little, we obviously had to tag along everywhere," he shrugged, "guess I picked up a few things along the way."

"Well, I love it," she faced him now, her voice lower, "thank you."

He wrapped his hands around hers, relieved that the necklace was a good fit, and she surprised him by leaning forward and catching his lips in hers. Kissing her the last time felt like years ago, a distant memory that he'd seldom allowed himself to think about, fearing it would distract him from everything else; but having her now brought those memories and feelings back in a second. He raised his hands to frame her face, cradling her smooth skin, holding her to him.

She scooted closer on the bed, allowing the kiss to deepen, taking their time to slowly familiarize themselves again.

A distant buzzing noise crept into his awareness; she must've heard it too because they broke apart reluctantly.

"No, no," she groaned in protest, reaching over to her phone on the bed side table, "it's Veronica," she informed him.

"Hello?"

He watched as she listened, her hair softly framing her face, lips parted and slightly pinker than they'd been before.

"Ok," she said, "uh, any time is fine we're both here. Sounds good, bye."

"What is it?" he asked.

"They're just leaving Judge Davis's house, and he thinks they're ready to take this whole thing public. They're driving back to Veronica's place to get ready, then they'll head over so we can all drive to the news station together."

Stunned silence came over him until he blew out a sigh, "Wow, ok. This is really happening."

"Guess so, yea...are you ok?"

So many possible answers to that question came into his mind all at once, but he settled on a question instead, "Do you think I still have time to talk to Linc before we go?"

She shrugged, "I don't see why not. I mean, they've still got to go home and get ready."

That reassurance caused conflicting emotions; he almost wished that he didn't have time, giving him a valid excuse to not go.

Almost.

He really did want to see Linc and make sure he was ok, but what he didn't want was a literal representation of his failure right in front of him – Lincoln back in Fox River. Worst part of it was that he had no idea how Lincoln felt. Was he angry? Hopeless? Did he feel betrayed, or was he grateful that everyone was still trying to help? The possibilities were endless, which left him with only one option: go see him and find out.

She must have sensed his hesitation, "Can I at least drive you there?"

The possibility made him feel more secure, knowing she'd be there as soon as he left. Otherwise, he'd be left alone with the aftermath of his conversation with Lincoln, and if Lincoln was leaning towards the "angry and betrayed" end of the spectrum, he feared where his mind would go, even for a short drive home in silent solitude.

"I'd appreciate that," he admitted quietly.

"Ok," she started to get up, pulling the skirt off the bed and putting it on, shrugging the jacket on too and grabbing his hand, "let's go."

XXXXXX

"Linc, you've got a visitor."

Again? He thought, wondering if it was Veronica, back already from Montana. How long had they been gone? He couldn't be sure, the days all blended together.

They cuffed him and he made the walk from solitary to visitation, his eyes adjusting to the harsh, bright light and stark white walls. The contrast of the brightness to the darkness of his cell pained his eyes every time. He should be used to it by now; but that thought was less than comforting, realizing that he'd been to visitation and back enough times in his life to be intimately familiar with everything about it.

Being in Fox River and on death row for the second time felt like a dream; or rather, a nightmare he just couldn't seem to escape from. The freedom he'd tasted had left his mind shortly after he came back, adjusting to the routines, sounds, and smells of being back in prison rather quickly. He was becoming numb to it, like he was watching his own experiences from a distance, and the demons that once scared him were now familiar enough that they didn't phase him anymore.

So much of his days here were "expected." He knew the routine and not much else ever happened, so when he entered the visitation room he almost took a step back, stunned at who he saw waiting for him at the first table.

"Michael?" he approached, hardly believing that his brother was really there. He sat down opposite him and asked, "what the hell are you doing here, are you crazy?"

Michael looked a bit surprised at his question, but answered, "I'm free, Linc. Christina held up her end...I can visit you."

Even though he'd known about the deal, knew that Michael had been working in Miami, he'd always had a hint of doubt that Christina and The Company would actually wipe his slate clean, but here he was, back at Fox River…as a visitor this time.

He looked good, Lincoln realized. The cloudiness of pain in his eyes from the brain tumor was gone, and his gaze was as clear and blue as it ever was.

Honestly, "It's good to see you, man."

Looking relieved, "You too. I'd ask you how you're holding up but I think I know what you'd say."

"I'm fine."

A smirk, "Yup, that's exactly what you'd say."

He shrugged, having so many questions on his mind and preferring to talk about anything aside from his dull days in this place, "How're things?"

"Uh," he took a moment to search for the words, "well, Steadman is alive. Veronica and Aldo found him, took pictures, but they got trapped at his place-"

"-trapped?!"

"They're back now," he assured, "Sara went to Montana to get them out."

After a moment, "Huh, so that's where she went."

"What?"

"They rescheduled my weekly physical, said she had to take some personal time."

"Ah," understanding now, "And now Aldo is getting ready to confess everything. They're going on the air tonight."

Slowly, "Tonight?"

"Yup," he leaned closer, "we're almost there, Linc. Just a few more days and hopefully you'll be out of here."

The possibility still didn't feel real. He'd been so out of the loop with everything happening, he hadn't allowed himself to really anticipate getting out, figuring it better to plan on being executed and then being pleasantly surprised than the other way around.

"What happens after that?"

Honestly, "I'm not sure. Veronica mentioned hoping for a new trial, but at the very least they'd delay the execution or take you off death row until they can figure everything out."

"Hmm," he mumbled, not knowing what to say and decided to change the subject, "how've you been? How's Sara?"

A bit surprised, "Uh, I'm good...I guess. We're getting close to finishing the project I was assigned for The Company. And Sara is," he smiled a little, "Sara. I'm a lucky man."

Nodding, "You are. I'm happy for you, Michael."

"Thank you," he sighed, "I really appreciate that."

Michael grew silent, a pained look appearing on his face that Lincoln had seen before, "What is it?"

His blue eyes were clouded, "You have no idea how sorry I am that you're back here-"

"-don't-"

"-I'm serious," he emphasized, "everything I did was to get you out and now you're back and I'm stuck working for The Company."

"But you said you're almost done, right? Then you're free to go?" he asked, remembering the terms of the deal.

After a moment, "Not exactly."

"What?"

His body language became more guarded, more tense, "They've been stalking Sara...threatening her if I don't stay working for The Company after I'm done with the bargain project."

Eyes wide, "Threatening her how?"

"I don't know, Linc. All I know is they've been following her and taking pictures, but considering who we're talking about, I know they wouldn't hesitate to torture her if I don't give them what they want," after a moment, "I might be naive, but I'm hoping they won't kill her because then they'd lose their leverage. But either way, I don't want anything bad happening to her."

"So what're you going to do?" he asked. Knowing Michael, he had to have a plan up his sleeve.

Silence.

"Come on, you don't take a piss without a plan man. Can't tell me that someone is threatening Sara and you haven't thought about a way to get out of it."

Slowly, "Well, there is one option…"

He waited for him to continue.

Sighing, "Christina contacted me again."

That elicited an eye roll, wondering what the hell she wanted this time.

"She told me that if I completed Bargain on my own and then gave Scylla to her, she'd sell it and give me 25% of the profit, have the General killed, and she'd be the new leader of The Company. I'd be free, and she'd have everything she wants."

It took a moment for him to process the deal Michael had laid out, "Can you do it?"

"What?"

"Finish it on your own."

"Oh, yea that's not the problem. I mean I don't think it is anyways...I should be able to figure it out. I'm worried about giving her that much power," he paused, "and about having someone murdered. I mean, The General is threatening Sara, but to kill him? I don't know. I don't know if that's a line I should cross."

Lincoln shrugged, "He's threatening someone you love."

"I know, I just-"

"-do what you have to do to protect your family, the family you've chosen. It ain't about blood, we know that, our parents left us like it was nothing, but we had each other. You're choosing to help me, and you're choosing to be with Sara. Whatever we gotta do to keep each other safe...nothing else matters."

Michael held his gaze for a moment, the look in his eyes reminding him of a younger Michael, one who used to ask his older brother for advice. He couldn't remember exactly when Michael had started being the "older brother to his older brother" but he felt something shift now, the roles reversing back to how they'd been when they were kids.

"I guess so," he said finally, "I'll talk to Sara about it."

"Good."

A guard barked from the doorway, "Visiting hours over, start walkin ladies."

Michael looked at him one last time, "We'll talk soon."

XXXXX

Sara sat in her car with the windows down, the sun and humidity causing her car to be an oven, but the steady cross breeze through the open windows was enough to make it bearable. Michael had been in there for a while, so she tried taking advantage of the downtime, letting her mind wander and rest, preparing for the storm that was brewing.

She saw him exit the building, walking towards her in his black slacks and blue shirt. His head was down, and something about his posture and expression made her think that he was deep in thought, contemplating something.

He opened the door and got in.

"How'd it go?" she asked.

"Uh," he buckled his seatbelt, "good I think."

She started the car and waited for him to elaborate. He didn't.

"What'd he say?" she asked as she backed out of her parking spot.

After a moment, "I need to talk to you about something."

"Ok?" she answered slowly, a nervous feeling prickling in her belly, "what?"

He started fidgeting his hands, "I uh, I got a call from Christina the other day."

"Ok?"

"She offered me a deal, one that would protect you from the General."

Without even hearing what the deal was yet, she could feel that she didn't like it, "What is it?"

"She wants me to finish Scylla without the help of my team and give it to her. She'd sell it and give me 25% of the profit, allow me to leave The Company, and she'd have the General killed...and become the leader of The Company."

That was a lot to take in, "Uh...wow, ok. What're you thinking?"

"To be honest, I've been avoiding thinking about it, but Lincoln thinks I should go for it."

"He does?"

"He says whatever I have to do to protect the people I love, I need to do it."

She heard the uncertainty in his voice and reached her hand over, resting it on his knee, "I won't blame you if you don't," she glanced over, "I won't. I realize that it's my safety on the line here, I don't want you to do anything-"

"-Sara," he grabbed her hand, searching for the right words, "I don't even know what's holding me back. She held up her end of the deal with my surgery, so I have to believe she would do it again."

"Is it about the General?"

He grew quiet, "I'd be the direct cause of someone's murder."

After a moment, "He might be the direct cause of mine."

He glanced over at her, but she kept her eyes on the road, not wanting to see whatever pain might be in his clear, blue gaze.

"That's the thing; I don't think he'd kill you. If he did, he'd lose his leverage."

She considered this, "True, but God knows what else he'd do to me," she understood where he was coming from, but she finally had to admit, "look, Michael. I'm scared. I'm trying to be brave through all of this, and to do the right thing, but having a stalker isn't something I'd wish on anyone, the paranoia is-"

"-I get that. Believe me."

"Right," she realized, remembering his time spent on the run, "I guess you do."

"And you're right," he continued, "I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

She parked the car at her apartment.

He glanced towards her and squeezed her hand, adding, "Especially you."

She felt his gaze settle on her again, the penetrating gaze that made her feel heady and squeamish all at one. Before she could register it, he was leaning over to kiss her, wrapping his free hand behind her head, fingers sliding through her hair. The desperation behind it took her by surprise; he acted as if the act alone could shield her from all the ugliness in the world, that as long as they were together, nothing bad could happen.

She kissed back without restraint, letting all of her frustration, her fears and uncertainty flow out of her, being replaced by the comforting bliss that always seemed to come from being with him. When their kisses slowed, she kept her face an inch away from his, searching his eyes and saying plainly, "Do whatever you think is best."

He lowered his head, "I have to take the deal. Again."

XXXXX

Veronica straightened her dark gray suit, the one she reserved for only the most special of occasions. Aldo was in a black suit and a red tie, ready to go on the air, and she was ready to be his wing-man, backing up his story and providing moral support with her presence. Michael and Sara were behind the camera, holding hands tightly and watching with baited breath. Sara gave her an encouraging nod and smile, nudging Michael to do the same. Veronica almost laughed, the reluctance on Michael's face was evident; that man didn't like to wear any emotions on his sleeve, let alone those of a cheerleader. She took a deep breath to compose herself, readying every fiber for the big reveal, the moment they'd all been waiting for.

Her stomach was hollow but somehow still filled with nerves, a warm tingling feeling in her lower belly. She was convinced that if she'd eaten lunch she'd be throwing it up behind the white leather couch she and Aldo were sitting on. Thankfully, she hadn't; she'd decided to save her appetite for a victory dinner once they were done with this whole thing.

The reporter stepped onto the stage with them, adjusting her mic. She was a quick-witted blonde woman; tall with a square jaw and commanding voice, she always wanted to be the first to get the scoop, which is why Judge Davis had recommended her. She was willing to report anything as long as it was mind-blowing and she was the first to tell the world about it.

Veronica squinted under the bright studio lights, feeling the heat radiate off them, baking her in her suit from the inside out. She glanced again at Sara and Michael who stood off to the side, looking professional and cool as can be in the darkness behind the lights. In that moment, she envied them, wanting nothing more than to slink into the shadows, but knowing that she had to be in the spotlight. That's why they were here, after all, but it didn't mean she had to like it. For some reason, she could command the attention of a judge and jury no problem, but being in front of a camera and addressing the nation just felt different.

The assistants came by one last time to check her mic and Aldo's just as the cameraman counted down, and the reporter started her broadcast, "I'm here today with Aldo Burrows and Veronica Donovan, the father and lawyer of convicted murderer and death row inmate, Lincoln Burrows. Tell us why you're here, Aldo."

"Thank you, Lisa," he began, sitting up a little straighter, "I'm here to shed light on why my son, Lincoln, was incarcerated, and it wasn't because of the murder of Terrence Steadman. In fact, Terrence is alive and well, living in a secluded home in Montana."

Veronica watched Lisa's face, her eyes widened as she latched onto this revelation, "So if Mr. Steadman is alive, as you claim, why was Lincoln supposedly framed for his murder?"

"Because of me," he said simply, "Mr. Steadman's company, Ecofield, was involved in a scandal with a group of multi-nationals we call The Company. They could have covered the scandal up a thousand different ways, but they chose to frame Lincoln for Steadman's murder."

Lisa's eyebrows furrowed, "Any idea why they chose that route?"

"Because I was the one who leaked the information about the scandal. They knew that a man with a son on death row would come out of hiding, and they would kill me to keep me quiet."

Shocked, "A bold statement," she then paraphrased, "so what you're saying is, this group called The Company was seeking revenge on you for leaking a scandal, and to do that, they chose to frame your son for murdering Mr. Steadman?"

"That's correct."

Lisa then turned her attention to Veronica, "Now, Ms. Donovan, you're Lincoln Burrow's attorney, correct?"

"Yes," she replied, commanding her foot to stop tapping nervously.

"With this information coming to light, what is your hope for Lincoln?"

More confidently, in her lawyer tone, "We're requesting a retrial in the hopes of getting Lincoln acquitted and out of Fox River. He's innocent, and we have evidence to prove it. Terrence Steadman is alive, and Lincoln never killed anyone."

"Well, there you have it folks," Lisa wrapped up the interview, "from Channel Five news, I'm Lisa Cross."

The camera's red light went off and Lisa addressed them both, "You guys were fantastic," she gushed.

"Thanks," Veronica replied, slightly annoyed with her fascination with all things perverse and disturbing, but was grateful for her having them on the show in the first place. And beyond relieved that it was over.

She glanced towards Michael and Sara - they were talking to each other with hands loosely intertwined, and she smiled, happy that her childhood friend had found someone to confide in.

Looking back at Aldo, "Alright, tomorrow I'll officially request a retrial."

He nodded, looking like a deflated balloon, obviously relieved as well, "Sounds good."

"And Aldo," he met her eyes, "thank you."

XXXXX

Aldo was back at Veronica's place, feeling exhausted yet satisfied, sitting on her couch. He'd finally done it; the burden of carrying his secret at the expense of both of his son's was finally lifted. That fact alone was allowing him to feel more joyous than he had in a long time, but there'd been an added bonus just before he'd gone on air; Michael had talked to him.

It hadn't been much, but Michael thanked him before he'd gone on stage and they chatted a little bit about how Lincoln was doing. Sara helped keep the conversation going, giving them both tidbits about him that she'd observed at Fox River and he was grateful for it; her easing the tension.

He saw the looks she and Michael exchanged, how their bodies drifted towards each other subconsciously and he could practically feel his heart expanding in his chest. She was a good woman; he could tell that from the first time he'd met her, and his son had somehow managed to capture her heart. He was happy for them, elated if he was being honest, but kept his enthusiasm to himself, not wanting to embarrass them or be the doting father watching young love blossom.

He also had to believe that Sara had played a part in getting Michael to speak with him at all; he hoped so anyways, that he'd at least earned her trust enough for her to nudge Michael back in his direction.

He listened now as Veronica cooked something for dinner, the smell of garlic and butter filling the air and realized how lucky he was. He was a man who'd lost his wife and both kids due to his own poor choices, now slowly gaining back the trust of both of his sons. Plus he had one, maybe two, potential daughter-in-laws who were some of the most capable, kind-hearted women he'd ever had the pleasure of knowing. Tears threatened to well in his eyes as he watched Veronica cooking, remembering the young lady she'd been years before, sneaking over to hang out with Michael and Lincoln after school, keeping them both in line and on top of their homework. The memory made him smile.

He speculated, but didn't dare ask, that Lincoln and Veronica still had more feelings between them than simply being friends and having a lawyer-client relationship. The lengths she went to in an attempt to save him were astonishing. He only hoped that once Lincoln was free, he'd be smart enough to see that, and to not let her slip away again.

He almost didn't realize it as his phone began to ring, vibrating deep within his pocket. He blinked back the moisture in his eyes and looked at the caller I.D.; it was Gretchen.

Curious, he stood up and excused himself, "I've got a call Veronica, I'll take it outside. Be right back."

"Ok," she answered from the stove.

"Hey," he greeted, shutting the door behind him and stepping into the cool night air.

"I saw your little stunt on T.V. tonight."

After a moment, "I did what had to be done."

Bitterly, "I'm wondering where exactly that leaves me?"

He sighed, "Honestly, stealing Scylla isn't my top priority right now. Getting Lincoln out of Fox River is."

"Saving your children. I get it. But when the time comes," she paused, a hint of sadness entering her voice, "please don't forget about mine."

He thought of Emily, the picture Gretchen had shown him years before, "I won't," he reassured, "when we move forward on that front, I'll let you know."

XXXXX

"Michael?" Sara asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"Sorry, what?"

She smiled from her seat next to him in front of the T.V., "You're obviously not paying attention to the show and I've said your name three times now."

"Oh," he realized, "I was thinking about calling Christina."

She rubbed his back lazily, "If it's bothering you that much, why not just do it? Get it over with."

He paused, "She irks me."

That elicited a chuckle as her hand stopped moving, "I get that. But if it's what your gut is telling you to do...the sooner the better, right?"

He glanced behind them, looking at the clock on the oven which read eight o'clock, "You think it's too late?"

"Unless she goes to work every day at four a.m., I think you're good. Give her a call," she encouraged.

He pushed himself up slowly, acting like an animal being led to slaughter, and grabbed his phone from the coffee table, "I'm going to go in the bedroom if that's ok?"

"Whatever you need to do," she assured, "I'll be right here."

"Just don't eat all the popcorn while I'm gone."

She looked up with wide eyes and a smirk, "No promises," popping another kernel in her mouth.

He opened the door to the bedroom, turned on the light and shut the door.


	30. Chapter 30

A/N: Thanks to everyone still hanging in there with me! Always love to hear from you all :)

XXXXX

Sara's eyes wandered off the popcorn bowl in her lap when Michael came out of the bedroom.

"So?" she asked.

He nodded slowly, "We have a deal….same terms she mentioned before."

She observed him closely; the closed off body language, a slouch in his posture, the way he pressed the bridge of his nose even though his brain-tumor induced headaches were a thing of the past.

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

His eyes narrowed in that secretive way of his, "No."

"Let me rephrase," she took the bowl and set it on the coffee table, turning towards him, "I think we should talk about it a little, so you don't drive yourself crazy."

"What's there to talk about?" he asked, plopping down next to her.

She didn't like where this was going; him pretending that everything was fine when it was obvious to her and anyone with a pulse that it wasn't.

"You tell me."

He sighed and looked over at her, "The whole thing," he started, a bit agitated, "this whole thing went way farther than I ever wanted it to. If it had all gone according to plan I'd be with Lincoln right now on a beach somewhere in Panama without a care in the world, but instead I'm here, trying to get him off death row and then going back to Miami to finish my contract with my employer who probably won't even honor the agreement."

She took in his words and tried to ignore the fact that his ideal future was being an island castaway with his brother (with her nowhere in the picture) and focus on the deeper issue. She could see how overwhelmed he was, and the frustration was boiling over. He was a planner and a perfectionist, and nothing had gone as planned.

She leaned her elbow against the back of the couch and propped her head against her hand, "I know it's a lot right now, but Lincoln could be off death row tomorrow. And you just made a deal to get out of The Company's crosshairs. Christina kept her word before, so we can assume that she will again, right?"

"It's not enough."

"Could you give yourself a little credit here?" she was growing exasperated now too, "Michael, if you hadn't done what you did, Lincoln would be dead right now."

That gave him a moment of pause.

She leveraged that moment where his resolve began to crack and continued, "and you won't be obligated to work for them anymore once Bargain is finished. You can get a regular job again…a normal life."

His eyes were clearer now, a bit less troubled, "You really believe that?" he asked quietly, "that we could have a normal life after all of this?"

She shrugged, "I have to. Otherwise, what the heck are we doing here?"

He seemed to understand and whispered something unintelligible.

"What?" she asked softly.

He shook his head, a small smile, "Just have a little faith," she tilted her head, questioning, "something Lincoln always used to tell me."

"Wise words."

"Yup," he held out a hand, silently asking for hers. She picked her head up and laced her fingers through his, snuggling in a little closer. He continued his thought, "they are…just not always the easiest to live by."

"Things that are worthwhile rarely are," she commented, rubbing her thumb back and forth over the back of his hand.

They sat in silence for a moment, the T.V. providing a comfortable background noise, and her mind started chewing on the details of Michael's agreement. She had so many questions that she couldn't form a single, coherent one to ask him. But, after a while of letting her mind sort through what she really wanted to know, she spoke without tearing her gaze off the television.

"Did Christina give you a timeline? Or, a deadline I guess I should say."

"No, not really," he answered just as absentmindedly, "As soon as possible, but…"

"Right," after a moment, "and The General?"

He understood, "She didn't say when they'd…take care of him. I'm assuming not until after I finish the project and give her Scylla."

She nodded, contemplating, "What if they didn't kill him?"

He looked at her now, eyes narrowed in confusion.

"Couldn't they sentence him to life in prison or something? I'm sure he's committed more than enough crimes to justify that," she shrugged.

"True," he paused, "but with all of his contacts in law enforcement and the government I'd be afraid that he could weasel his way out somehow."

They settled into silence again, both acknowledging the unfortunate truth in his statement. Guilt started to prick in the back of her mind as well; knowing that someone was going to die so that she'd be protected, but self-preservation was a tough habit to break. The ethical dilemma was making her head spin no matter how many times she mulled it around in her mind. Sure, she liked to think that she was a better person than The General, but still…did that really give them the right to take someone's life?

She abandoned that topic after a while, knowing that she'd be chasing her tail with that one all night, and considered other aspects of the deal.

"One more question," she said after a while.

"What's that?" he asked, looking a bit more relaxed now than he had when he'd exited the bedroom.

"Christina said she'd give you 25% of the profit, right?"

"Yea."

"Any idea how much that is? I mean, is it enough to live off of while you find another job?"

He met her eyes again, looking a bit reluctant.

"What?" she asked.

"Uh," he sat up a bit straighter, "she did tell me. Well, an estimate anyways."

She shrugged, growing more concerned with his hesitation, "Ok, and?"

He paused, "She's guessing that Scylla will be worth at least 125 million dollars."

Her eyes widened, lips parted in shock.

"Yea," he agreed softly.

"Uh," she took a moment to process, "and you just…weren't gonna mention that little detail?"

He smirked, "Wouldn't want you marrying me for the money."

That earned him smile and a slap across the chest, "Yea right. Even if Scylla was only worth five bucks I'd still-" she stopped herself, realizing what she almost said.

He realized too, his blue eyes locking into her brown ones, the intensity making her want to squirm again. He finally spoke lowly, with a suggestive smirk, "I'll have to keep that in mind."

She could feel the pink rising in her cheeks, so she leaned over and buried into his side, resting her head on his shoulder. His grip on her hand tightened ever so slightly, and they sat in comfortable silence, returning their gaze to the T.V. but paying no attention, both distracted by the possibility of a lifetime together.

XXXXXXX

The sun was shining brightly as Veronica's heels clicked down the steps and out to her car, a huge smile on her face. Her request for Lincoln's re-trial had been granted, and since his execution was scheduled so soon, the new trial would happen in three days. Thankfully, because of all the work she and Sara and Aldo had done before, the evidence she needed was already compiled and fairly organized, giving her more time to simply prepare her argument, polishing it and getting ready for the big day.

She opened the door and sunk down into the driver's seat, enjoying the warm air inside the car, heated by the sun.

Aldo was back at her place; they'd both decided it made more sense for her to do this part alone, and she had to admit that she enjoyed a little solitude every now and then, and lately that was a rare thing. Between Aldo and Michael and Sara, she found that she never had an evening alone anymore.

It was a blessing more than a curse though; she knew if she had hours at home by herself to sit on the couch she'd be over-analyzing everything and diving way too deep into her own head. Being around other people kept those worrying thoughts at bay. She had a team; they were all doing this together.

She considering swinging by Sara's apartment to tell Michael in person that the re-trial had been granted. He'd mentioned that he'd be working remotely from her apartment while Sara was working at Fox River, so she knew he'd be there and be alone. She would've loved to stop by a coffee shop and pick them each up something, share the news in person and maybe have a one-to-one chat with him. That was something that used to happen more often, and she missed it. He was the kind of person she loved to have deep, thoughtful conversations with, but it only seemed to have that special something when it was just the two of them - put Michael in a group, and he just wasn't a big talker.

She sighed, acknowledging that the possibility of a coffee fueled, in person chat was just a dream. She knew she couldn't escape her day job any more than she had been lately. It was only ten a.m. on a weekday, so she reluctantly ordered herself to drive to the office and catch up on at least some of the many things she was behind on.

When she parked and walked up to her building, she settled for sending Michael a quick text, letting him know that everything went as planned and knowing that he'd inform Sara as well. She'd already spoken with Warden Pope and he assured her that he'd pass the news on to Lincoln. She trusted him enough to take his word for it, though she'd have loved an excuse to go see Lincoln too.

She knew she didn't need an excuse, but she felt like any time she went to Fox River she had to have an exciting revelation to share with him. Otherwise, she'd have a compulsive need to fill the silence with trivial things - a habit that must have developed slowly over time because it wasn't always like that between the two of them. She had fond memories of a quiet morning together, or an evening on the couch with both of them lost in their own thoughts, comforted by each other's presence but not needing to voice anything. Now, whenever she was around him she felt like she needed to be entertaining and overly cheerful, compensating for what must be some very lonely and boring days in solitary.

She shook her head, trying not to over-analyze every aspect of every relationship she was trying to maintain. She knew she should just be relieved that the re-trail was granted and everyone who needed to know about it, knew. And she was.

With that piece of business done, she entered her office and sat down, grimacing at the mountain of papers in her inbox. She grabbed a pen from the cup by her computer and grabbed the first file on her stack, ignoring the nagging feeling that it was just wrong for her to be there. She just sat down and already felt like a kid on the last day of school before a break; her mind was anywhere but on her work, and there was an overall sense of urgency and impatience. It took everything she had to rein in an ounce of mental capacity and focus on her work, but she did it.

For about ten minutes.

She huffed and lowered her head; it was going to be a long day.

XXXXX

Mahone hung up his cell phone with unnecessary force; Kim wanted to meet with him again. He already knew what that meant, that Kim would harass him for not getting the job done, that he'd threaten him more…blah blah blah. They'd done that dance before, too many times to count and he was beyond sick of it. It was to the point that any time Kim wanted to, "Have a word with him," in his office, his blood started to boil.

He fumbled around in his jacket to find the pen containing his tiny white pills – his only chance for having a rational discussion with this man, and he walked out of his office and into Kim's.

"Alex," he greeted with his insufferable smirk, "have a seat."

"I prefer to stand," he insisted, not wanting to spend enough time in there to get comfortable.

"As you wish," he wasted no time, "by now I'm sure you've seen the news…the recent development in the Burrows case."

"I have," he confirmed, "and if you're about to blame me for it let me save you some time-"

"-please, Alex," he interrupted, "if we truly believed this was your fault…" he finished that thought with a death glare.

His heart skipped a beat, stomach sinking; he didn't need Kim to elaborate. His mind immediately went to his wife and son, knowing that their fate was at stake.

"What do you want?"

"You're being reassigned."

He couldn't help it and scoffed, which then turned into a laugh, "Again?"

Agitated, "Glad you find this humorous, despite the fact that Aldo Burrows and his moment of heroic truth is threatening everything we've been working towards for years."

He remained silent.

Kim composed himself, "We've been working on the Bargain theory for years. Everything is tied to that – developing it, securing it, and taking out anyone who gets in the way of its progress. With the Ecofield scandal out in the open and threatening to expose us, it's more important now than ever that our team of engineers finish it and keep it secure until the moment it's sold."

"And?" he asked, growing impatient.

"And Michael Scofield is an important part of that plan."

Slowly, "Sorry, I don't follow."

Eyes piercing, "Didn't it strike you as curious, how Mr. Scofield's criminal record just vanished? How I suddenly asked you to not use your F.B.I credentials to track him down anymore?"

He waited.

"He works for us now. He's the lead engineer on Bargain."

This revelation short-circuited his mind, his subconscious racing to finally connect all of the dots with this crucial piece of information, "So the F.B.I cleared him so that he can work for The Company?"

"The Company cleared him," Kim clarified, "I was just the conduit – the F.B.I agent that erased every criminal ounce of his existence…on behalf of The Company."

His mind was still reeling from this new bit of information. When Michael and Lincoln had escaped and the F.B.I assigned him to track them down, he'd taken it at face value. The fact that he was a Company agent hadn't mattered then; their escape was a safety issue for the general public and a man-hunt for escaped convicts. Nothing more.

But learning that The Company was ultimately behind all of this was a bit like a slap in the face. It all made sense now, but the knowledge wasn't comforting.

"You still haven't told me my assignment."

Kim folded his hands on his desk, "We're assigning you to Tancredi. The General is very happy with the progress that Scofield has been making on Bargain. As it is right now, when Bargain is finished, so is Scofield's contract with us, but that point is being…debated. The General wants him working for us on whatever comes next. Tancredi is his weak spot."

He didn't want to ask, "And you want me to…what?"

"The details are up to you, but Scofield needs a very clear message that we aren't backing down, and that Sara will suffer the consequences if he chooses to turn his back on us."

"Torture. You want me to torture her?" he asked, appalled, "first the lawyer and now this? How far do you think this'll have to go? You think he's gonna back down after a few scare tactics? This guy is too smart for that, he'll see right through your little plan."

Unphased, "It's a good plan."

"It's a stupid plan. Torturing her is just going to piss him off, and he'll get more creative. We've already seen that with him and gone down that road. It doesn't work - not with him."

"You're going to make it work, Alex," with a fake smile, "that's why we hired you."

"By torturing an innocent?" he asked again.

"Depends on how you look at it," snarling, "is anyone truly innocent?"

XXXXX

Sara got home from work and tiredly dropped her bag on the table by the door. A slight pounding headache had started a few hours ago, but she'd decided to tough it out until she got home, hoping that some food and water along with a little rest was all the medicine she needed. Just knowing that she was home now and could have a relaxing evening was enough to have the pain starting to subside.

"Hey," she heard Michael greet from the kitchen, and her heart lifted even more. That was something she'd really miss when he had to go back to Miami; coming home to an empty apartment wasn't nearly as enjoyable as having him there waiting for her.

"Hey, how's your day?" she asked, slipping off her shoes and walking in to join him. He was sitting at the table, typing away on his laptop.

"Uh," he finished typing something and lifted his head, "pretty good I think."

"Yea?" she wandered behind him and rested her hands on his shoulders, dropping a kiss on top of his head.

"Yea; Veronica let me know this morning that we got a re-trial for Lincoln," he replied, turning to look up at her.

She smiled, "That's fantastic! Did they say when it is?"

"Three days."

Eyes widened, "That's quick."

"Yup. I guess since his execution date wasn't very far off…"

Nodding, "That makes sense," she gestured to his laptop, its screen full of engineering gibberish she didn't even begin to understand, "work going ok?"

"Not bad actually," he shifted in his seat a little, obviously stretching an aching back, "I'm ready for a break though."

"Me too, I'm starving," she agreed. It was a little after six, and lunch was a long time ago.

He shut his laptop and stood up, "Want me to go pick something up?"

Her stomach growled in response, "Won't say no to that. Car keys are in my purse if you want," she gestured to it on the table by the door.

He considered a moment, "I think I'll walk if that's ok," he stretched his arms out now, "I've been here sitting all day."

She shrugged, "Whatever works. Just make sure the food doesn't get cold."

He gave her a quick kiss, "I wouldn't dare."

With that, he went over to the door, checked that he had his wallet and put his shoes on, "I'll be back in a while."

"I'll be here," she confirmed as he shut the door behind him. The sudden silence and solitude had her feeling the weight of her day all over again. It had been a busy one; all of her recent time off was starting to catch up with her at work. The headache, both figurative and literal, started creeping back into her awareness. She stood there next to the table for several beats, staring off into space, allowing her tired mind to rest for a moment.

Her eyes eventually landed on the water glass Michael had next to his laptop and she realized she was probably deathly dehydrated, which wouldn't be helping the headache situation. In a zombie-like daze, she grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it from the sink, and ordered herself to chug it down. Whether that would actually help her headache or not, it certainly wouldn't hurt. She considered taking a pain killer, but she never liked taking medicine unless the pain was intolerable, and it wasn't there yet. Distracting herself was a better option.

So, while she waited for Michael to get back, she started puttering around; putting a few things in the dishwasher, starting a load of laundry- throwing Michael's stuff in too since he'd be staying for a while, and just as she was pressing start on the washer she heard a clicking sound. She paused and listened closer, realizing it sounded like a door handle.

"You got back fast," she commented as she walked out of the laundry room, "I didn't realize it had been that long-"

She stopped mid-sentence, realizing that it wasn't Michael staring at her from the doorway. She recognized this man, the F.B.I agent from T.V.

His gun was drawn now, "Don't move," he ordered her.

She remained frozen, not so much out of obedience, but more from shock.

"What do you want?" she asked, "Michael was cleared."

She kept her distance from him as much as possible. He hadn't moved in past the entryway, and she was halfway down the hall.

"It's not about what I want, believe me," he almost laughed. It was more of a defeated scoff, she decided, which confused her. Wasn't this the guy who'd stop at nothing to catch the brothers and punish them?

She narrowed her eyes, "Then, what?"

He gestured towards the dining room table with a cock of his head, "Sit."

She didn't move.

He sighed, "Sit or I'll have to make you sit and I don't think you want that."

"You'll make me?" she questioned, daring him to elaborate.

"Yea, you really wanna take your chances? Let's test your hand to hand combat skills against mine, that sound like a good idea?"

Damn.

"What're you gonna do?" she asked, "If you kill me, Michael will never do what you want-" she realized the implications of what she'd just said. If this guy was strictly an F.B.I agent he wouldn't be here, "wait, are you Company?"

He looked at her with an expression that was both confused and bothered; she wasn't playing the damsel in distress part like he'd obviously hoped, and she was asking too many questions.

His gaze fixed on her, "What the hell does it matter anyways," he muttered, more to himself than to her, "yes, I'm here on behalf of The Company."

Slowly, "And you're here to hurt me? Scare Michael into obedience, working for you forever?"

"Pretty much," he agreed, "sit."

She still didn't budge. He sighed, holstered his gun and came at her in a flash. His speed shocked her as she tried to duck past him, not wanting to be backed further into the corner of the hallway, but his hand clasped around her forearm, his grip like a vise. His knee hit her gut before she could react, and she was doubled over. The second she stood up, his other fist met her cheekbone, blinding her with a jolt of pain as a yelp escaped her lips. He grabbed both arms and cuffed her behind her back, dragging her down the hallway and shoving her into the dining room chair.

She blinked back the pain, tasting blood, feeling the throbbing and swelling starting in the side of her face. She curled over slightly to one side, babying the side of her ribs that his knee had struck, unable to sit up straight.

He grabbed duct tape and bound her feet, wrapping the tape around her arms as well, securing them to the rungs of the chairback.

"Now that we understand each other, let's try this again," he began as he took the seat next to her, angling his chair to face her directly, "if Michael doesn't agree to work for The Company until they no longer wish to employ him, this will be a much more regular occurrence."

The throbbing in her cheek was distracting, hindering her ability to focus on what he was saying and put the pieces together. If only she'd taken some damn pain medication for her headache, maybe it would have kicked in by now and provided a little relief…or at least kept the swelling down. As it was, she could already feel that she was going to have a nasty bruise.

"So…what?" she replied a bit sarcastically, "you'll keep showing up to punch me in the face until he sells his soul to you people? That's not going to work."

"Isn't it?" he challenged.

Firmly, "No. And if you kill me, you lose your leverage," she shrugged, "your plan is terrible."

That elicited a laugh from him; a genuine, exhausted, and slightly on-the-verge-of-going-mad laugh, "My plan? Oh, if you only knew."

"Yea. You, The Company," she shrugged, "same thing."

The moment those words registered in his mind, she saw something change. Maybe she shouldn't have said that.

A fire ignited behind his eyes; anger, rage, and fear all rolled into one. He fidgeted around a little bit, as if trying to decide what to say or do, his mouth opening and closing, then pursing in a thin, flat line. After several moments filled with nervous energy and uncertainty, he got up and grabbed a bag he'd apparently dropped just inside the doorway. She'd been so distracted by the gun pointed in her direction, she hadn't noticed it before.

He sat back down and opened the bag, not hesitating at all as he withdrew a syringe. The sight of it had her pulse thumping wildly.

How long had Michael been gone? She wondered. Was he almost back? Please let him almost be back.

"What are you going to do?" she asked lowly, not knowing if she really wanted the answer.

He met her eyes, "You and Michael both need to understand the gravity of this situation," he took the syringe out of the wrapper with shaky hands, grabbing a vial filled with clear liquid and drawing some in, "he needs to make a deal with The General, because killing you isn't the worst thing we could do to you…or him. Believe me."

He held the needle upright, squirting out a few drops.

"Please…no," she asked lamely, knowing it was no use.

The needle sank into her arm and she felt the burn as the plunger went down. Everything immediately went fuzzy, sinking, into blackness.

XXXXX

Michael cradled the warm bag of food under his arm as he walked the last few blocks back to Sara's place. She hadn't said what she wanted for dinner, but he knew she wasn't picky and would happily eat whatever he brought back. There was a Mexican place not too far from the apartment, and after walking a while, that's where he'd ended up.

He ordered a little bit of everything, figuring she'd find something she wanted in the variety he'd bring home, and he could eat the rest of it for lunches the next several days while he worked from home.

The bag was still warm, as promised, as he stuck the key in the lock and turned it.

Huh, he thought. The deadbolt didn't move – it felt like the door was already unlocked. Did he forget to lock it?

He shook his head and dismissed the thought, opening the door and shutting it behind him, slipping off his shoes.

"I'm back," he announced, "and I got tacos," he walked past the entryway and his heart sank through his feet.

"Sara, no," he dropped the bag and ran to her limp figure. She was taped to the dining chair, slouched over. Her head was hanging slack with her hair covering her face. He brushed away her auburn hair and revolted at the sight; her face battered and bruised, her cheek swollen, and eyes closed.

He tried to wake her up; shaking her shoulders a few times, checking for a pulse…it was slow, but it was there. Her breathing was shallow, and she was unresponsive.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and called 9-1-1, fighting back panic and tears. It felt like an eternity before they got there, leaving him to his own devices, trying to help her. He did everything he could think of; he cut the tape and freed her hands and feet (aside from the handcuffs), picking her up and setting her down on the couch instead, leaving her sitting up halfway. Should she lay down? What if she threw up or couldn't breathe? He felt helpless. Ignorant.

When the E. finally arrived they agreed with his assessment – she was alive but sedated, no obvious physical harm aside from the busied face and a bruise on her abdomen he hadn't noticed yet. They loaded her into the ambulance and instructed him to follow. He grabbed her car keys from her purse by the door and left in a hurry, hating that he couldn't be in the back of the ambulance with her.

The drive took too long; the guilt and fear taking hold of him in the solitude. His grip on the wheel was too tight, mind bouncing between all of the horrible outcomes that were possible. Was she poisoned? What if there were long term effects?

What if she never woke up.

Bile rose in his throat and he suddenly felt faint as he parked the car and ran in after the E. rolling her stretcher. He couldn't even consider that possibility, not when she needed him focused and present.

They got her in right away and the doctors and nurses went to work. He stood back and watched the choreography of the medical team doing their job, leaving him helpless and numb. Now that she was relatively safe, he looked closer at the bruises on her face, on her stomach, registering the pain she must have gone through. He knew that if he wasn't so afraid right now, he'd be livid – ready to fly down to Miami and strangle The General himself. But as it was, he just stood there as the minutes ticked by, her fate completely out of his hands, and desperately needing to know if she'd be ok.


	31. Chapter 31

"Michael, I'm so sorry," Veronica hugged him as soon as she walked into the hospital. He clutched her tightly, desperately. She ran a hand up and down his back, offering hushed, soothing words.

Aldo had walked in with her but lagged slightly behind. As she hugged Michael, she could feel his uncertainty behind them. She slowly broke away from Michael and stepped back, gesturing to Aldo that it was his turn to offer his sympathies.

Aldo offered a hand, and then obviously ignored his rational mind and turned the handshake into a hug. They slapped each other on the back a few times as men do, and then he asked, "How's she doing?"

"Uh," he pulled back a little, addressing them both, "they said she's stable, and aside from the bruises she'll be ok."

"What the hell happened?" Veronica asked.

"They said she had some kind of sedative in her system, but beyond that I have no idea. She's still sedated, but they think she'll wake up soon."

"Who did it?" she asked.

Reluctantly, "Well, I don't know exactly who…but I think we all know who was behind the order."

They all nodded with understanding, "Well, we're all here for her," Veronica reassured, "and you. If you need anything-"

"-I know," he offered a sad smile, and her heart broke for him.

"I can always stop by her place and get a change of clothes, anything you guys need," she emphasized, squeezing his arm in one last gesture of reassurance. She felt pretty useless, but sometimes even a simple offer was enough to make her feel like she was doing something, and hopefully it would offer him some peace of mind.

"Thank you," he said tiredly.

Aldo stuck his hands in his pockets, "Do you need something to eat? I can stop by the cafeteria and get something for all of us."

She realized that Aldo must be feeling the same way that she was. Every bone in her body wanted to make this right, to wind the clock back and prevent Sara from ever being hurt, but that wasn't an option. The only thing left to do was offer the simple comforts of human existence; company and food.

Veronica looked at Michael, sensing his hesitation but seeing how drawn he looked. She asked gently, "Did you have dinner yet?" the clock on the wall read just after seven.

"No, I didn't," he said, and something in his voice registered guilt.

Confused, "Tell me."

"What?" he asked, thrown off.

"You just thought of something- something that upset you. What is it?"

His eyes widened, obviously not used to being so transparent, "Uh," he stammered, then gave in, "I was out getting dinner when she was attacked."

Aldo immediately replied, "That's not your fault."

The hurt in Michael's eyes was evident.

"It's not," Veronica echoed, "for all you know they were watching and waiting for you to leave. There's no coincidences with them."

"I shouldn't have left her alone."

"You can't baby sit her 24/7," she countered, knowing that he was digging his heels in, solidifying his guilt.

The look in his eyes said that he knew she was right, and he didn't give a verbal response.

Aldo cleared his throat, "I'll go grab us some food, you've got to eat something, Michael."

"Thanks Aldo," Veronica replied and then turned back to Michael, "let's go sit down."

His guard seemed to drop a bit, and he allowed Veronica and Aldo to fuss over him. She led him to a row of chairs along the window. It was dark out now, but sitting by the window was still somehow less depressing. Aldo arrived with containers of soup and crackers, along with a few brownies and cookies. He'd even brought some decaf coffee, making Veronica smile and feel slightly called out – he knew she was a sucker for the beverage no matter what the hour.

With warm food in their bellies, their conversations turned to lighter topics; anything but the trial or Sara's condition. Veronica told a few work stories, she asked Michael about his apartment in Miami…anything to keep him talking and engaged.

She watched Michael closely, happy to notice that his body language seemed to relax a little. He'd been hesitant to eat at first, but ended up finishing the meal and even stealing a cookie she had, earning him a sisterly slap on the hand. They passed the time as best they could, but she knew they were all eagerly waiting for Sara to wake up; they all cared about her, and keeping the worrying thoughts at bay was only possible for so long.

XXXXXX

Sara slowly started becoming aware of her body. It was an odd sensation; floating and drifting, with the dull sensation of pain mingled in, but she was unable to pinpoint its origin. The hazy awareness lasted for what felt like a long time, but eventually she was able to will her eyes open slowly. The lights in the room were soft, but still caused her to squint, blinking back the pain in her eyes. There was a steady beeping sound next to her, a sterile smell that was vaguely familiar.

Was she in a hospital?

The combination of sounds and smells was homey and familiar, being the doctor that she was, but being unaware of why she was in a hospital was deeply unsettling. She opened her eyes again, braving against the lights. She turned her head slightly to try to find the call button and gasped at the sharp pain on the side of her face. Her skin felt tight and swollen, throbbing and protesting at the slight move she'd made.

Feeling around, she finally found the button. Within a minute, a nurse was in the room.

"Hi Sara, I'm Maddie. How're you feeling?" the young brunette asked.

"Head hurts," she admitted, "what happened?"

"The doctor is on his way in now to talk to you, ok?"

"Uh…ok," she was confused as to why she wasn't getting an answer. Then the memories slowly started coming back.

Maddie left the room after making sure everything was ok, and Sara's mind flashed back to her apartment…the gun pointed at her, the hand cuffs and punch to the face, the syringe…

The door opened again and a friendly looking man in his thirties entered the room, "Hello, Sara, nice to officially meet you," he pulled up a chair next to her bed and offered a warm smile, "I'm Dr. McCord."

"Hi," she offered weakly, deciding already that she liked him.

"Can you tell me what happened?" he prompted, "Anything at all that you remember."

"Uh," she froze, not knowing how much to share, "I don't remember much," she lied. She couldn't exactly tell him about The Company and all of the conspiracies. She'd sound like a lunatic…but on the other hand, she kicked herself for lying to her own doctor. She knew she was lied to by patients all the time and it drove her nuts.

He seemed to detect her dishonestly, but maintained his professional persona, "Ok, and the man that brought you in," he flipped open the folder he had, "Michael Scofield?"

"Yea-what about him?" she asked, realizing with a sinking feeling that Michael must have found her unconscious and bruised. That wasn't going to be an easy thing to get him to forget.

"What's his relation to you?"

"He's…he's my boyfriend," she told him, not particularly liking the word…it seemed insufficient somehow, but it would do for the time being.

Dr. McCord looked her in the eyes now, "I have to ask: did he do this to you?"

Eyes widened, "What? No! God no."

Unphased, "Because if he's hurting you, we can help get you someplace safe-"

"-no," she cut him off, "it wasn't him."

"Then who was it?"

She sighed, "Can I see him please? Michael."

His expression softened again, "Yes. Of course," he put a hand on her forearm, "we're here to help, just want to make sure we aren't missing anything."

She nodded, understanding the protocol but not caring at the moment.

"I'll go get him. I'd like to talk to you further about what's going on, is it ok if he's present for that?"

"Absolutely," she agreed, just wanting to see him…and for him to see her; he had to know that she was ok. She could only imagine him pacing the waiting room, frantic and worried.

Dr. McCord nodded and left the room, leaving her alone and waiting. She reached up a hand and felt her face, running her fingers over the swollen skin, trying to assess the damage without seeing it.

The door opened a moment later, Dr. McCord walking back in with Michael on his heels.

"Sara," he breathed, instantly at the side of her bed, crouching and taking her hand in both of his.

"I'm ok," she assured, "I'm fine."

His eyes scanned every inch of her, finally settling on her face, and she saw the pity in them, "This is all my fault."

"No, it's not," she shot back, shaking her head and then wincing at the resulting jolt of pain, "it's not your fault."

"Then whose fault is it?" he asked.

She looked at Dr. McCord, who was standing politely off to the side, "Do you mind if we have a moment alone?"

He held her gaze, obviously searching for evidence that she was afraid or hiding something, then reluctantly agreed, "Of course. Hit the call button if you need anything."

"Thank you," she turned her attention back to Michael, "it's the General's fault," then mumbled, "and all of his lackeys."

Eyes narrowed, "Do you remember who did it?"

Oh yea, she realized. He didn't know that part yet, "Uh, yea, I recognized him."

"Who was it?" his voice grew lower, determination in his eyes.

"The F.B.I agent that was after you and Linc when you first escaped."

Now Michael looked even more confused, "The F.B.I?"

"Well, yea," she realized he hit the same mental block that she had, until it had clicked for her, "but he's Company too. I flat out asked him, and he said yes. He's a Company agent."

"Huh," was all he could manage, the wheels turning.

They sat in silence for a moment; Michael obviously trying to put the pieces together in his mind, and Sara simply enjoying his company and warmth of his hand surrounding hers. It must've been terrifying for him, she realized, finding her unconscious like that. Whatever the agent injected her with…she had no idea what state it left her in. She gazed down at Michael now, staring blankly into space, and wished she knew how to ask him what had happened. She wanted to hear the story from his perspective too, allowing her to better understand what he was feeling, and what his fears were.

A knock at the door had them both looking up again, and Sara smiled at seeing Veronica and Aldo in the doorway.

"Hey guys," she greeted happily, grateful to see some more familiar faces. It amazed her sometimes to have this many people in her life who would show up for her, no matter what crazy circumstances they were in.

Veronica stepped in, "Sara, oh my God."

Sara offered a weak smile; she really needed a mirror to see what all the fuss was about. Sure, it hurt, but…

"What happened?" Veronica asked as she came to the foot of her bed, Aldo not far behind.

"Well, I-"

"-it was the F.B.I agent," Michael cut in, staring at Aldo now, "apparently, he works for The Company too."

"What agent?" he asked, then realized, "the one from the news?"

"That's the one."

"Why would he-," he paused to gather his thoughts, "so when he was after you and Lincoln, it was presumably on behalf of the F.B.I."

"Right."

"But then with you getting hired by The Company, he's now following The General's orders and not the F.B.I's?

"That's my take," Michael confirmed, "Sara, did he mention anything about why he was there?"

"Yea, he said it was to get you to work for them longer…that if you don't," her voice took on a mocking tone, "This will be a much more regular occurrence."

Michael paled slightly at that but did his best to shake it off, "We have to end this as soon as possible."

"End this?" Veronica asked.

Michael looked at Sara, communicating silently. She knew he was asking if he should tell them about his deal with Christina. She knew it was a painful subject for him, but she also knew they would benefit by keeping everyone in the loop. She replied quietly, "I think you should tell them."

Veronica feigned a look of feeling slighted, "Tell us what? Come on, Michael if you don't trust us by now-"

"-it's not that," he promised, "I just didn't want to admit it to myself…what I was doing to keep everyone I love safe."

Veronica sat on the edge of Sara's bed, her voice softer now, "Tell me."

He looked over at her and stood up a bit from his crouched position, settling into a chair that was against the wall instead. He took a moment, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, "I took another deal from Christina."

Aldo's eyes widened, "You what?"

"Hear him out," Veronica replied, obviously not wanting to get into family drama right now.

"She agreed to…" he glanced up at Sara, who met his eyes and nodded, "to kill The General, as long as I finish Scylla on my own and give it to her. She'll sell it and give me 25% of the profits." He looked at Sara again, "We'd be free and…safe."

"Wow," was all Veronica could manage, her hand subconsciously resting on Sara's leg, squeezing it every now and then in a reassuring gesture. Whether it was for Sara's benefit or her own, she couldn't tell, but it made her smile a little despite herself.

"Michael, this," Aldo began, "this is getting in way too deep."

"I'm already in too deep," he shot back, "this is the way out."

"With her? You trust her?"

"You say that like you're any better," he was angrier now, bitter, "You both left us. You both worked for The Company. You're digging Lincoln out now and that's fine, but I have to get out of this too. If she's willing to help and I have no better option…"

A silence fell, his words cutting deep and entering a dangerous territory. The polite, easy conversations that he and Aldo had shared were forgotten, and the childhood wounds that lingered into adulthood were now out in the open for everyone to see.

After a moment, Sara spoke quietly, addressing the room but mostly Aldo, "She did help before," shrugging, "held up her end of the bargain."

He wasn't convinced, shaking his head, "I don't know…I just don't feel right about this."

"I don't feel right about it either," Michael replied, an edge to his voice, "but this," he pointed to Sara, "can't happen again."

Sara's felt a swell of emotion; being the object of someone's love and protection, no matter what the cost, was something new to her. She wanted to say something to express her appreciation, but she couldn't find the words and knew it wasn't the time anyways. Instead she settled on reaching a hand out towards him. He stood up and clasped his hand around hers, coming closer and leaning over, planting a long kiss on her forehead. The gesture surprised her; she'd never known what his stance on public displays of affection was, but she'd have guessed he was on the more private side.

Maybe it was because they were just in the company of people he'd known his whole life that he felt comfortable being more vulnerable. Maybe he was exhausted and scared out of his mind. Whatever the reason, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the grounding sensation of his lips against her skin, feeling a brief pause in her throbbing headache.

Veronica broke the silence, squeezing her leg again and offering, "Whatever I can do to help, you guys just let me know, ok?"

Aldo nodded slowly, giving in, "Me too."

Sara smiled softly, "Thank you."

XXXXX

Veronica woke up the next morning feeling drained already. They'd stayed at the hospital until almost midnight making sure that Sara was ok, and that Michael was truly going to be alright on his own. Once she was convinced that he wasn't going to spiral once left to his own devices, she and Aldo had driven back to her place and crashed almost immediately.

Her alarm going off at six was cruel – way too soon for her liking, but she had work to do. Lincoln's trial was only two days away now and she still needed to brief him on it and go over what to expect. Truth was: she didn't know what to expect herself – this was unfamiliar territory to say the least. She'd bet her last cent that there was only a handful of lawyers across the country who'd seen this situation before- add to that her inexperience in criminal law and her history with Lincoln and things were getting messy inside her mind.

Maybe that was the root of the problem, her uncertainty of where she stood with Lincoln. Once he was out, would they just be friends? More than that? Or would they drift apart, like they had before this whole mess had brought her stumbling back into his life. She hoped against that last option, not wanting to lose him again. She thought about the intensity of her fear of losing him to the chair, of worrying about him on the run, and now fighting tooth and nail for his freedom since he'd been back at Fox River. All of those factors combined had made one thing perfectly clear: she still had feelings for him.

The admission to herself brought a sinking feeling in her stomach, the mixture of thrill and dread all in one, like the biggest drop on a rollercoaster. That feeling combined with her lack of sleep and the early morning hours was making her queasy and even less thrilled to get out of bed. She dared to sit up slowly, allowing her mind and body time to sync up and adjust, but the lingering effect of her emotional roller coaster ride was still there.

How could she broach that subject with him? Should she broach the subject with him? She stared, un-seeing, at her feet on the floor beneath her, willing herself to get off the bed.

Maybe she should wait…if she suggested they try again and things somehow went badly with his trial, it would leave them both worse off in the long run. Yup, that's what she'd have to do – bury her feelings and wait. She was getting pretty good at that.

With a mighty effort, and pushed herself up and over to the closet, picking out a professional yet comfortable outfit for the day. She knew that Aldo would need to testify on Lincoln's behalf, but was waiting to see if Michael or Sara should be called on as well. She knew they'd want to be there to offer moral support, but needed to find out if they'd be actual witnesses for the trial. If they were, she needed to prep them…and hope that Sara was physically well enough to be there in the first place.

But first on her list was a visit to Fox River – hopefully for the last time, to go over everything with Lincoln. They'd get to meet in a private room this time, not regular visitation, and she looked forward to a longer time together as well as a little privacy. There would still be guards watching but she felt slightly less exposed than in the cafeteria style visiting room she usually ended up in. Being his lawyer, and this being their last meeting before the big day, she'd be afforded pretty much all the time she needed and intended to milk that as much as possible. She didn't want him going back to solitary any sooner than he needed to and assumed that he'd prefer that as well.

She straightened her hair, applied a bit of mascara, and grabbed her bag, noting for the first time that the strap was starting to fray. The poor thing had carried pounds of files for well over a year, no wonder it looked like it had taken a beating. As long as it could last through this trial, maybe she'd celebrate by getting a new one; disposing of the bag that carried the literal burden of this whole case on her shoulders.

She sighed and got into her car, heading to Fox River for one last visit.

XXXXXX

Michael had barely slept a wink. After Veronica and Aldo had said their goodbyes the night before, his mind refused to slow down, trying desperately to figure out a way out of this whole mess.

He was creative, and he knew it; he secretly prided himself on being very adept at problem solving, though he was always careful to stay humble, to not allow himself to develop a grandiosity that would end up biting him in the ass. But this time was different. He had no master plan. All he had was a deal with Christina and a burning desire to make the people who hurt Sara and Lincoln pay for what they'd done. So, in essence, all he really had was an ever growing sense of urgency to finish Scylla.

After he'd spent about an hour mulling over everything, he'd come to the conclusion that the only constructive thing he could do was continue trying to finish Scylla as fast as humanly possible. Around one in the morning, with Sara peacefully asleep, he grabbed a paper towel from the sink in her room and quickly, skillfully, folded an origami rose, leaving it by her bedside. It wasn't much, but he knew if she woke up and saw that he was gone, the rose would be a small assurance that he'd be back.

With that, he snuck out and drove back to her apartment, got his work laptop, and returned to the hospital. When he entered her room, she was asleep but in a slightly different position; one hand laid gracefully across her abdomen with the rose in between her fingers. He smiled to himself, relived that even though she'd woken up, she'd found what he'd left her and that it put her mind at ease enough for her to fall back to sleep.

He plopped back down into the chair opposite her bed and plugged the laptop in. Against his better judgement, he stepped back out into the hallway and got some questionable coffee. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep anyways, and since he was awake he might as well function as highly as possible, right?

For several hours, he poured over the information in front of him. He felt useless in about every other way: he couldn't heal Sara, he couldn't free Lincoln, couldn't prevent more people trying to harm his family…this was the one thing he could do.

Around four in the morning, Sara started to stir. The sound of crisp hospital sheets crinkling is what first drew his attention away from his screen, followed by a low groan. She started to stretch but then winced, curling back up, her hand coming to rest on what must've been a sore spot by her ribs.

"Hey," he said softly, "you ok?"

She looked confused a moment before turning her head towards him. Her eyes narrowed, voice still low from sleep, "Are you…working?"

Guiltily, "Uh, yea."

Her eyes roamed over him for an instant before declaring, "You didn't sleep."

Quietly, "Nope."

She looked at the table next to him, seeing the coffee cup, "You know you're gonna burn yourself out, right?"

"I have to finish Scylla, it's the only way to keep you safe and get my life back."

Rubbing her eyes, "And you think that what, four hours of extra work in the middle of the night will get you there?"

"Four hours more than it could've been," he defended, "I've made progress."

Nodding, "I'm sure you have, I just don't want you to kill yourself trying to finish this thing in one day."

He tilted his head back and forth, "More like three or so."

Startled, "You think you can finish Scylla…in three days?"

"Maybe four," he clarified.

Stunned silence, followed by, "They had a team working on it for years, and you think you can-"

"-I know I can."

After a beat, "How?"

He shrugged, "I work well under pressure."

That got a small chuckle, "Can't argue with that, considering all you've managed to accomplish in the last year."

There was a knock at the door and Dr. McCord walked in quietly, then a look of surprise appeared on his face, "Oh, you're awake! Good morning," he greeted cheerfully.

"Morning," they echoed.

"How're we doing?" he asked as he took a seat, the three of them forming a triangle.

Sara nodded, "Pretty good, I think. Still sore, but…"

"Yea it'll be that way for a while," he said apologetically, "but the sedative has worked its way out of your system. We're looking to have you out of here by lunch time if that sounds good to you?"

"Sure," she replied, and Michael tried to read her expression. She didn't seem thrilled at the prospect of leaving, but maybe she was just sore and tired.

"I'm sure you already know the drill," Dr. McCord started, respecting her position in their shared profession, "but you'll have to take it easy for a while. You've got a lot of bruising going on, but nothing is broken, so it'll just take time to heal."

She nodded.

"In any case, we're glad to see you doing better. Is there anything else you need?"

"I'm ok, thank you," she replied.

"Alright then, you two take care," he got up and made his way to the door.

"Thank you," they replied in tandem as the door clicked behind the kindly doctor.

Michael turned to Sara, "So, just a few more hours here, huh?" He searched her face, looking for any signs of fear, that she wasn't ready to go back to her apartment and it was there; subtle, undetectable to someone who didn't know her well, but it was there. Her eyes were ever so slightly wider than they should have been, her fingers restlessly toying with the end of her sheet.

She cleared her throat, "Yea, sounds like it."

Gently, "We can stay somewhere else if you'd like."

She shook her head firmly, bravely, "No, I can't stay away forever…but I'd feel better if I wasn't alone, as much as possible I mean."

He reached out a hand, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have left you alone."

"Michael, you went out for ten minutes to buy tacos, you can't possibly blame yourself. But until Scylla is done, maybe I should only leave the house to go to work-" a flash of horror passed on her face, "oh my God, I need to call and let them know-"

"-Veronica took care of it," he assured, squeezing her hand, "she called the Warden last night. They know you'll be out until…well, until you show up for work again."

Relief flooded her features, then guilt.

"What?" he asked.

Shaking her head, "Feel bad for Katie. She's been picking up a lot of slack lately."

"That's not your fault."

"I know I just…"

Understanding, "I get the feeling."

"I guess you do," she paused, contemplating, "is this what we do now? Feel guilty all the time and try to fix things, then feel guilty again?"

A dark chuckle, "Seems that way doesn't it?"

"Sometimes, yea…I'm just ready for it all to be over."

"Yea, you and me both," he laid a hand on hers, "but one day soon we can have a life together. A normal life. We'll talk about work, what we want for dinner-"

"-what movie to watch," she added with a sad smile.

He met her eyes, "One day, Sara," then added, "soon."


	32. Chapter 32

A/N: We're getting there, folks! Trial is almost here. Hopefully I'll have more before too long. Thanks again for all the reviews and follows! :)

XXXXX

"Sure you're ok?" Michael asked as he opened the door to Sara's apartment.

She walked slowly over the threshold, still bent over slightly, babying her injured side, "Yea, yea I'm fine," she assured. Michael couldn't tell if she was reassuring herself or him, but he could tell that being back in the building was a little unsettling for her.

She'd been quiet on the drive over; not that she was usually a chatter box, but she seemed more distracted than normal. He'd tried to make conversations a few times and she'd answered politely as always, a word here and there, but hadn't seem interested in holding up a conversation, so eventually he'd given up and allowed them to slip into silence until they'd reached the steps of her apartment.

He walked in behind her now, his eyes falling to the bag of long forgotten Mexican food waiting for them on the floor, just inside the doorway.

"Sorry about that," he said, picking it up and taking it over to the garbage, "I completely forgot about it," he realized, remembering his mental state of disarray at seeing her beaten and unconscious.

She absentmindedly put a hand on his back, "Don't worry about it."

Her eyes roamed the room for a moment, and he watched her, trying to read what she was thinking, "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"Uh," she hesitated, then a dark chuckle, "not really."

He nodded silently, not wanting to pry.

"If you don't mind, I think I'm gonna take a shower and get out of these clothes," she declared, wanting to do something normal and familiar.

"By all means," he replied as her hand fell off his back. He grabbed it loosely in his own, giving it a quick squeeze, "I'll be right out here."

She nodded bravely and retreated to the bathroom, giving him a moment to breathe on his own in the familiar space. His mind went back the that night again – entering her apartment from the dark, cool evening. He'd been mentally drained from working all day and the walk to the restaurant had been a welcome break, had made him happy. The fresh air reviving his brain, the walk waking up his legs and getting his blood flowing again. That feeling of being alive and content had vanished so quickly though, the warm bag of food falling to the floor, the paralyzing dread when he saw her there.

Life can change in an instant; he'd never really understood that before.

But today was a stark contrast to that night; the sun was shining brightly through the windows, dappling its light on the houseplants on the kitchen windowsill, their leaves open and extending in its direction. The green and the sunlight made him feel better, more at peace, as nature usually does.

The apartment itself was the same as always; clean, aside from the leftover tacos, and smelled faintly of laundry soap, a peaceful quiet. It felt oddly comfortable to be there again-like it could be easy to forget the other night.

But he'd never forget it.

He heard the water start running in the bathroom and came back to the present, deciding to use however long she'd be in the shower to get some work done. Grabbing the laptop and taking a seat at the dining room table, he tried getting back into the groove of things, but was finding it more difficult today for some reason.

He checked his work emails, finding that a few of his colleagues had offered useful input since he'd last checked, and felt a prick of guilt again. He had some pretty intelligent, kind people he now fondly called his colleagues and in a few short days he'd be selling them out; that fact didn't escape him.

Nevertheless, he tried to shake off that notion and focus on the task at hand.

It was quiet in the apartment, aside from the white noise of running water and the occasional humming he heard from Sara. He took that as a good sign – someone who was deeply traumatized and hurting wouldn't hum a sweet melody in the shower, would they?

He strained to hear it better; the soft, melodic tunes passing through the walls and making him smile to himself. He'd never heard her sing, but he'd always found her speaking voice to be quite soothing. Back at Fox River, he remembered hours of hearing nothing but men yelling and hollering, buzzing, clanking of cell doors, and going to the infirmary, having her ask in her soft tone, "How're you feeling today?" always made him more at ease. As he listened now, he confirmed to himself that her humming had the same effect.

After a while the door opened, and Sara emerged in jeans and a white v-neck t-shirt, her hair still damp and slightly wavy.

"Hey," he greeted from behind his screen.

"Hey," she replied, walking over and behind him, resting hands on his shoulder, "how's it coming?"

He finished clicking a few keys, "Progress. If I have some time tonight to work on it, and most of the day tomorrow-"

"-Lincoln's trial is tomorrow."

"I know, but I could get up early and work until we have to leave and then do more on it after," he paused a moment, "what time did Veronica say we needed to be there?"

"It starts at ten," she reminded him, "but we should get there early."

He nodded, trying to quickly calculate how many hours that would give him to work on it.

She shifted behind him, "You know you don't have to finish this in a few days…"

"Yea, I do," he sighed, "I don't want to find out what his definition of a "much more regular occurrence" is when it comes to your safety."

She squeezed his shoulders, asking hesitantly, "You think I can at least go back to work? After tomorrow I mean."

He tensed a bit under her hands, not particularly liking the idea, "As long as I can drive there with you and make sure you get in safely."

He couldn't see her eye roll, but could feel it as she replied, "Michael there are guards all over the place, he's not going to attack me between my car and the gate."

He turned to look up at her, "You don't know that."

She huffed, her tone growing more irritated, "You can't protect me from everything- and to be honest I'm getting a little sick of being treated like a bargaining chip to get to you. It's not a fun position to be in – not just because of the danger it puts me in, but because they only see my life as having value as long as it helps them get to you."

"Sara-" he started.

"-I know," she interrupted, looking tired, "it's almost over, but maintaining some sense of a normal life would go a long way for me right now," she paused, then quietly, "please. Even if it just means walking into work by myself."

His heart constricted, wishing he'd realized all the different angles of this from her perspective, and the toll it was taking on her. To him, the threats from the General had meant one thing; he had to protect her. But for her, not only was her life in danger, but so was her sense of freedom, of self-worth…

"I'm sorry," he managed, "I'm sorry for a lot of things…for the position I put you in." He paused to gather his thoughts, to figure out a solution that worked for everyone, "I won't stop you from going to work or doing whatever you want to do – wouldn't even try. But that being said, I want you to be safe," he met her eyes, "so maybe we can make a deal."

She looked guarded now, a mix of embarrassment for finally telling him how she really felt, along with a look of distrust in the whole concept of "making a deal."

"What kind of a deal?" she asked quietly.

"Check ins," he answered, "with each other. If you go to work, text me when you get there and any time you leave. I'll do the same," then added, "even though it's not me they're threatening directly."

A slow nod, "I can live with that," she thought for a moment before declaring, "In that case, I'd like to go back to work the day after tomorrow. A familiar routine sounds pretty nice right now."

He understood, "Ok, then. Back to work in a few days…so what're you gonna do today?"

She shrugged, "Not sure," then gestured to his laptop, "I'm guessing you'll be here all day?"

"That's the plan."

Not surprised, "Ok, uh, I guess I'll make some food and then start the washer…again."

"Again?"

She looked at him blankly, then explained, "I started it right before he broke in. Clothes have been sitting in there damp for days so I'm gonna run them through again."

"Oh," he replied, unsure of how to interpret her bluntness about the day of the incident, while also latching on to the new piece of information. Since she still hadn't told him the whole story, his knowledge of the attack was pretty limited. She must've been in the hallway when he broke in.

It also explained the faint smell of laundry soap, one that didn't feel so comforting anymore.

He was glad that she wasn't avoiding the topic all together and that he didn't have to walk on eggshells, but his curiosity about what happened was still there. He knew that it didn't make a difference: whatever happened was done, but he still longed to know the exact chain of events, and everything she'd suffered through.

He realized after some reflection that her way of communicating about the event wasn't straying from her normal behavior, but it was more of a role reversal that he wasn't used to. When he'd been diagnosed with a brain tumor, she'd told him plain and simple. She'd never minced her words before and wasn't mincing them now, but her revealing of information in this case was parceled out. It wasn't the whole story being delivered all at one. It wasn't her delivering bad news pertaining to him, but rather, she was revealing tidbits of information, little by little, from her own tragic experience.

With him, she'd always ripped the band aid right off, full disclosure, but maybe for her it was different, and it had to happen more gradually.

And he'd be there for that, waiting for any moment that she opened up a little more, however long it took, until she could be free of it and heal.

But for today, here she was, doing laundry and making lunch like nothing had happened, aside from being slightly disgruntled that she had to start the washer again. He smiled softly to himself as she grabbed a pan and turned the stove on– he certainly had a fighter on his hands.

Next to his laptop, his phone started buzzing, the caller I.D. reading "Christina."

"Christina is calling," he informed Sara as he stood up, "I'm gonna take it outside."

"Ok," she replied without turning around from the stove.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Michael," she purred, "just checking in to see if there's any progress to report."

"Progress is being made, but I'll spare you the boring details."

"Details are rarely boring, but I'll humor you," she retorted, "do you have a timeline established?"

He debated what to tell her. He was fairly confident that he could have it done in a few days, but didn't know what the ramifications would be if he told her that and then failed to deliver. It wasn't really her he was worried about, more like the people she was selling it to.

"A week at the most," he settled on, figuring it would give him some wiggle room if something went wrong.

"That soon?" she almost sounded impressed, "Well, that's good news."

"Do you have arrangements to deal with the General?" he asked.

He could hear her curiosity, "Yes, several options to take care of that…why so concerned, Michael?"

Deciding against his better judgement, he shared, "He had Sara attacked. Beaten and drugged."

"Oh my," she sighed, "poor thing."

His eyes narrowed, something in his gut telling him that she wasn't sincere. Her voice, the way she said that rang a faint bell in the back of his mind, and he realized it was an almost forgotten childhood villain, Ursula, deeming Ariel a "poor unfortunate soul."

Unsettled by the comparison, he went back to the facts, "I need this to be over as soon as possible."

"If you give me Scylla, he'll be gone, and you won't have to worry about anyone anymore."

"I'll be in touch," he replied, and ended the call, walking back into the apartment still feeling a bit shaken.

"Everything ok?" Sara asked as she put two plates on the table, a sandwich on each. Two bowls of soup were already there; he didn't realize she was cooking for him too, but seeing the food in front of him, he realized how hungry he was.

He sat down across from her, closing his laptop and moving it out of the way, "You ever watch The Little Mermaid?"

She looked confused but amused, and gestured to her hair, "Duh, why?"

"Well, do you-"

"-wait," she interrupted with a teasing smirk, "you used to watch The Little Mermaid?"

"Never mind that," he dismissed with a smile, "remember Ursula, the "Poor Unfortunate Souls" bit?"

"Sure, I loved that song."

"Of course you did," he replied with a scoff, for some reason not surprised that she liked the villains and princesses alike, "well, I told Christina what happened to you, just briefly, and she called you a, "poor thing," and it reminded me of Ursula."

He saw a smile ghost her lips.

"I know it sounds stupid, but something in her tone was just…off."

Sara set her sandwich down, "Off how?"

"I can't put my finger on it," he admitted.

Slightly amused, "So to recap, you think your mom is an evil sea witch who is making a deal with us…pretending to help, but really just trying to further her own agenda?"

He was speechless a moment, "I honestly hadn't thought that far into the parallels, but…yes," his stomach dropped ever so slightly. He was being ridiculous, right? She'd helped them before and was offering her assistance again…but this time felt different.

"Michael, you're being paranoid."

"Am I?"

She shrugged, "What else could she stand to gain from this? She's already getting millions of dollars and becoming the leader of The Company."

He considered this for a moment as he ate, not knowing how to articulate the notions that were forming.

He came up with nothing.

"I honestly have no idea."

She reached a hand over and put it on top of his, "You're overthinking."

Mind elsewhere, "Maybe."

"Let's get through tomorrow first, ok? You can work on Scylla, we get Lincoln free and take everything else as it comes."

Without seeing an alternative, he nodded his agreement.

XXXXXX

Veronica got to Fox River and was escorted to the room that she and Lincoln would have pretty much to themselves for the rest of the day. There was a window in it that led to a room housing a few guards, but that didn't phase her. The guards would be watching and might even be able to hear a few things, but she knew she'd be able to easily ignore them…aside from putting on a show to convince them that Lincoln was needed in there for as much of the day as possible.

She wasn't going to have him sent back to his cell any sooner than he had to be.

The guards left her alone in the room where she sat down, placing her bag on the table. The actual business part of this meeting shouldn't take that long, considering that Lincoln's testimony isn't the most important one in this trial. That award went to Aldo. For Lincoln, it was the same story it had always been, "I didn't do it," but it was Aldo's responsibility to paint a picture for the jury, and to provide them with facts that they didn't have before. She'd coach him too, probably later that night, but she trusted his instincts and his ability to carry himself in a professional, reputable manner.

Lincoln was a bit more of a wild card.

And then there was Sara, she remembered with a queasy feeling- the result of empathy for her battered and bruised friend, who had agreed to testify as well. Hers wouldn't be too involved, but having another person besides Aldo and herself that had seen Steadman alive would add weight to their case. The fact that she had a black eye that was given to her by a Company agent didn't hurt either…sure, that altercation had nothing to do with Lincoln, but the jury didn't need to know that. She could sell the attack as an attempt to silence her and prevent her from testifying; witness intimidation, she thought with a tingle of excitement. That would bode well for them and maybe even get some sympathy points from the jury.

Was she really doing this? Lying to a jury? The acknowledgement of what she was considering had her fidgeting nervously with her hands. It was a risk, but they had to put it all out there; it was now or never.

The metal door opened with a loud creak as Lincoln shuffled in and greeted her with a simple, "Hey."

"Hey, yourself," she sized him up, taking in his appearance. She got no useful information; he was guarded, his face neutral, body language unremarkable.

"Ready for the big day?" she asked as he sat down.

He shrugged, a small ghost of a smile on his lips, "Guess so."

She didn't respond, just watching him more, and he was obviously uncomfortable being under such scrutiny, "What?" he asked with an almost laugh.

"What're you thinking?" she wondered out loud, "about everything, how're you feeling?"

"Nerves mostly," he answered, "sometimes hopeful…sometimes I just wish they'd put me in the chair and get it over with."

Her face fell, "You can't mean that."

"Of course, I don't wanna die," he clarified, "but if that's what's gonna happen I'd rather just get it over with. I'm sick of waiting, and don't wanna be running on false hope."

"You're not," she reassured, "with the testimony from your father and Sara, there's no way they won't rule in your favor."

"Sara, huh? She's testifying too?"

Nodding, "Yup."

"Huh," he said again, staring blankly at the table, then a small smile, "she's one of the good ones."

Softly, "She is."

"She and Michael still together?"

"Happily," she confirmed, forgetting how out of the loop he must feel sometimes.

"How about you?" he asked with a smirk, "you find a good one yet?"

That earned a smile, "Between work and dealing with your dumpster fire I haven't had the time," she teased.

He smiled now too, "Glad to hear it."

"Are you?"

His smile faded, growing more serious. He looked down at his hands for a moment, obviously deciding whether or not to say something. She waited patiently until he finally looked back up at her and said, "When I get outta here…if I do, I wanna try again. If you're up for it."

His boldness and unexpected request had heart thudded wildly in her chest, a flood of relief washing over her, all her previous doubts cast aside. Still, she had to clarify, "Are you asking me out?"

Unwavering, "Yes I am."

She shouldn't be so surprised, but she was. How long had he been planning to ask her? Wondering and remembering their times together, tormenting himself with the possibility of a future together.

Just like she'd been doing.

"I'll tell you what," she managed, "when you get out of here, we'll go out to dinner, anywhere you like."

"Anywhere?" he asked, a gleam in his eyes.

She saw where he was going and cut it off immediately, happy to be on a safer topic, "Except that terrible rib joint by the mall you used to drag me to. I mean a real, good restaurant."

"They have good ribs," he defended.

Smiling now, "Agree to disagree."

He pretended to consider her offer, "Fine, no ribs. We'll go somewhere we both like."

"It's a date."

XXXXX

Aldo sat on Veronica's couch, acknowledging that he really might be overstaying his welcome, but figuring since the trial was tomorrow, there was no sense in moving out now. After the trial he'd be free too; no more hiding from the Company. He could buy a house, settle down somewhere if he wanted…maybe near Michael and Lincoln, wherever they ended up.

The idea was so foreign to him; he'd spent years laying low, not to the extent that Michael and Lincoln had after their escape, but still. Whereas the whole country had been keeping their eyes open for the Fox River Eight, Aldo's pursuers had been the ever-so-elusive Company agents, lurking in the shadows. He could never quite shake the urge to look over his shoulder, or to suppress the uneasy feeling he had when walking alone in the dark, but tomorrow could change that.

He could have a life again too.

He flipped through the pages of evidence again, even though he knew it by heart. His main concern was keeping calm on the stand, and not letting the prosecutor ruffle his feathers as they were so adept at doing. They liked to provoke, to make you angry and flustered, hoping you'd slip up and say something off-color and make the jury think you're unstable and therefore not credible.

His only defense against that was to take his time, and to keep his eyes on his family: Lincoln, Michael…Veronica and Sara. They were all depending on him to carry this thing through, and he intended to succeed.

After a while of staring blankly at the files in front of him, he let his mind wander to Michael. He was worried about him too, but hadn't allowed himself to think about it much since Lincoln's trial was the top priority, and had been the top priority for a while now. Even though he didn't know Michael that well, which was his fault – he acknowledged with a pang of regret, he knew that he seemed bothered. He'd always been withdrawn even as a child, preferring to be alone and lost in his own mind, but he seemed to be sinking further into himself the last couple of days. Sara being attacked was obviously part of that, and Michael feeling like he had the sole responsibility of making sure that didn't happen again couldn't be helping. That was a hell of a cross to bear on his own and Aldo wished he could help, but based on what Michael had told him, there was nothing anyone else could do- it was all up to him.

The deal with Christina did seem like his best option right now, and the only one that could be accomplished quickly, making sure that Sara was out of danger, and that Michael was allowed his own freedom to live the rest of his life however he wanted.

But that didn't make it any easier.

Aldo hadn't talked to Christina in a long time, but they hadn't left on good terms. His instincts told him not to trust her, and he felt the stir of uneasiness start in the pit of his stomach. Was he being bias? They were exes and had a checkered past, of course he didn't particularly like her, so did that give him the right to tell Michael not to trust her? He toyed with this idea for a while, trying to assess the situation logically, without emotion. After stewing on it for a good twenty minutes he settled on a decision; he couldn't interfere. If Michael decided to go along with it, he'd support him and try to help if things fell apart…if she backed out or betrayed him. He hoped with every fiber of his being that that wouldn't be the case, but if it was, he'd be there to pick up the pieces.

XXXXXXX

Sara pulled the covers back and eased onto the bed, being careful of her sore spots. The pain wasn't that bad, but it was enough to make her wince if she wasn't careful. Belly-flopping onto the bed was a definite no, but she could get comfortable fairly quickly, for which she was grateful.

She was able to convince Michael to close his laptop and go to bed when she did, which hadn't been an easy task. He got this look when he was really involved in something; a laser-like focus of his gaze, the slight tapping of his heel on the ground as one leg bounced up and down. Half the time he didn't even respond to his name when he was in the zone and she'd have to either physically go up and touch him to get his attention or practically yell his name and stand in his direct eye line. She didn't mind it; it was kind of endearing how absorbed he could get in a task in front of him, but it was late and she didn't want to wake the neighbors by yelling at him, so she'd settled on waving a hand between his face and the screen, smiling at him and asking politely if he'd like to get some rest.

He'd said no.

She switched from "would you like to get some sleep," to , "you need sleep and I'm not taking no for an answer" mode in an instant. Tomorrow was a big day for his family and she'd be damned if he showed up as a sleep deprived zombie all in the name of preventing her from getting another black eye.

He must have sensed that her tone meant business because, even though he'd given her a slight glare of reluctance, he'd saved a few things and shut the screen, plugging his laptop in again and following her to bed.

He was already under the covers and she could tell his mind was still on his work, but did her best to get him talking about something else.

"Do you have clothes ready for tomorrow?" she asked, "laundry is done, but I didn't see any trial appropriate clothing in there," she realized, hoping he'd brought something that would work for the occasion.

"I've got a suit that I brought, it's hanging in the closet."

She rolled slowly onto her side, facing him with a smirk, "You're moving stuff into my closet now? How official."

A smile, "Well, if you must know, I was hoping to prevent wrinkles…but I like the other implications better," he scooted closer and laid an arm gently on her waist, "are you gonna be ok tomorrow?"

She relaxed, feeling the weight of his arm, "Yea, I'll be fine. Veronica said I shouldn't have to say much. I'll just tell the truth," she shrugged, "shouldn't be too bad, and I'm happy to help."

A soft smile faded to a more serious look, him meeting her eyes, "Thank you for doing this. For everything," after a moment, "it means a lot."

Shyly, feeling vulnerable again under his stare, "Like I said, happy to help."

He said nothing as his hand slowly moved up to her face, his fingers tracing with a feather-light touch over her still swollen and bruised skin. She remained frozen in place, allowing his fingers to roam uninterrupted, assessing the damage while being careful to not inflict any more. Eventually, he raised himself a few inches off the bed and leaned closer, planting a soft kiss on her bruised cheek, followed by another, and another. She could barely feel it, his touch so light, but it still caused a stir in her belly, kept her unmoving and holding her breath.

His hand found her waist again, then her lower back as he pulled her gently towards him, his lips finding hers. She closed her eyes and relaxed into their warm softness, trying to ignore the flush of tingles, knowing that anything more than kissing wasn't a possibility. Not tonight. She was still injured and the last thing they needed was to try and explain a sex-induced broken rib to the court as her reason for not being there tomorrow.

Still, the man wasn't making this easy on her. She followed her desire and let herself drape a leg over both of his, allowing him to thread his in between hers, bringing them closer. The kisses were slow and deep, causing the initial pang of desire to grow as her arm wrapped around his back, holding him. If they didn't stop soon, she knew she'd reach the point of no return.

Reluctantly, she pulled back slightly, "Michael-"

His eyes were open now and boring holes into hers.

"-I can't," she finished, her thoughts blurred, "we can't, not tonight."

Hand brushing her cheek again, after a moment, "You're right, I'm sorry."

She took another moment to compose herself slightly, "Don't be sorry, just," she pecked him on the lips, "don't be such a tease."

A smirk now, "My humblest apologizes."

With an eye roll, "I bet."

She sighed and rolled slightly over and onto her back. He leaned closer one last time and dropped a quick, barely there kiss on her cheek, "Goodnight."

She grinned, still frustrated and wanting to smack him, but couldn't bring herself to even attempt holding a grudge, "Goodnight."


	33. Chapter 33

Sara woke up and not a moment later, the peaceful bliss of sleep gave way to a pang of nervous energy in her belly. Her responsibilities of the day as a witness hit her with a force that it hadn't before; days leading up to the trial she knew she'd have to testify. Hell, she volunteered to, but the reality of what that meant for her was striking a different chord now that the day had finally arrived.

She'd testified before, but it had always been in her capacity as a physician, never as a friend. It was easier that way – she was a medical professional presenting the facts, but this case was different. She'd still be presenting facts, but they weren't medical in nature. Her real concern though was that the prosecutor would try to undermine her credibility somehow. That's all they had where she was concerned- make the jury deem her dishonest and unreliable. Veronica had warned her, but she hadn't really allowed herself to imagine the various scenarios in which that might happen.

Today. It would happen today.

The work that they had all put into this floated back into the forefront of her mind; her first night visiting Veronica, comforting her after she'd witness the murder of the man trying to help them, the long nights going through evidence, the mornings fueled by coffee, donuts, and determination. The spur of the moment trip to Montana, being chased by Company agents…it had been a long road to get here, but today was finally the moment to see the fruits of their labor.

That was the hope anyways.

Michael stirred next to her, possibly awoken by the buzz of energy that she was sure must be radiating off her skin, even in the early morning hours. His eyes didn't open, and he didn't make any move to indicate that he was actually awake and ready to get up.

Her mind continued whirling, and after a while of trying to will herself back to sleep, she knew her efforts were in vain and decided to get out of bed – slowly, so as not to hurt herself, and start getting herself ready.

It was still dark, and she didn't want to wake Michael by turning on the light, so she used the flashlight on her phone to raid her closet. After a bit of consideration, she grabbed a black pencil skirt and its matching suit jacket, along with a silky white shirt for underneath; black and white seemed like a safe choice- not wanting a red shirt to subconsciously influence the jury to thinking she was angry and hostile, and not wanting a blue one to make them think she was trying too hard to be likeable.

Was she overthinking? Probably, but she grabbed the silky white blouse off the hanger anyways and told her mind to shut up about it. The last thing she needed was one more worry, however insignificant.

Slipping into the clothes already made her feel slightly more prepared; the comfortable snugness of the skirt and clean lines of the jacket adding to her confidence. The woman in the mirror looked like she knew what she was doing, and that was the attitude she'd carry with her until the trial was over.

The feeling brought back a few childhood memories she hadn't thought about in a while. Childhood wasn't entirely accurate though, it was more like…her adolescent and early adult years, dressing up to attend one of her father's events. At the time, wearing a fancy dress was her least favorite attire…still kind of was, but it was the implications that bothered her the most. She was Frank's daughter, and her beauty and ability to act polite and submissive was her only attribute as far as any of his cohorts were concerned. She was expected to behave like a lady, to paint a picture of his wonderfully normal yet somehow elitist lifestyle.

She was a prop.

For that reason, the suit felt like a much better choice; a symbol of strength and power. She'd forgotten how much of an effect a simple change of clothing could have on how she felt. Ninety-nine percent of the time she was either wearing work clothes or a simple outfit – jeans and t-shirts, which is how she liked it. But today was a special occasion, one where she wasn't a prop, but an asset and a witness- one who could lend a hand in setting an innocent man free.

With hours left until they had to leave, she took her time getting ready; straightening her hair until it was sleek and shiny, and applying her eye make-up to look put together but not overly dramatic. Her face was now a deep purple on the side that had met Mahone's fist, so she carefully applied foundation to cover it and made a mental note to bring the foundation with her in case she needed to reapply it later. It was going to be a long day after all.

She stepped back and analyzed her work, satisfied with the result. She smoothed her hair one last time and reminded herself to not subconsciously run her hand through it while on the stand…it was a nervous habit, and she didn't want to appear nervous.

A bit of shuffling behind her stole her attention. Michael trudged into the bathroom in his worn-out shirt, eyes still half closed.

"Morning," she greeted, straightening her jacket.

"Whoa," his eyes were open now, taking in her appearance, then looking down at himself, "I need to step up my game if I'm walking in with you."

Smiling, "You better walk in with me."

He eyed her more carefully, "Did you sleep ok?"

"I did," she answered, "but as soon as I woke up I started thinking about everything and…I don't know."

His hands rested on her shoulders from behind, "You're gonna do fine, just tell the truth."

"I know, I'm not concerned about what I have to say, I'm worried that they'll try to twist my words somehow…back me into a corner and try to get me to say something in their favor."

Sighing, "That is what they do, but I know you'll do great," then added, "you work well under pressure."

Her head tilted side to side, contemplating. Then a smile, "Yea, guess I do."

XXXXX

Veronica and Aldo arrived together and took refuge in a room just outside the courtroom. Walking down the hallway, she could detect the faint smell of coffee and sandwiches, no doubt the food they had provided for the jurors in the room adjacent. She felt the hollowness in her stomach, having not been able to eat anything for breakfast; her nerves far too amped up to even consider it. She wasn't worried though; it was more of an energy of excitement, of the moment finally being here.

They were early, and expecting Michael and Sara to be there soon, but for now, it was just the two of them.

"You ready?" she asked her star pupil.

Aldo nodded as he shrugged his jacket off, "Think so."

"You'll be fine," she assured.

"From what I hear, the prosecutor is a snake," he ventured, his self-doubt starting to show through his skin.

Shrugging, "He can be, but as long as you stick to the facts, it'll be fine. I can always redirect the questioning, just like we practiced. You're here to present the facts, do that and it'll all work out."

He took a deep breath, working to calm himself down and pump himself up at the same time, "Yea, I know, but it's definitely the prosecutor I'm worried about…being on the stand when you're the one asking questions will be smooth sailing," he winked, and she smiled, happy to be a person of safety and comfort for him during the trial.

She knew that feeling; speaking in front of so many people and knowing that they'd be hanging on your every word. If her presence in front of him made him more at ease, she was happy to play that role.

There was a knock at the door, followed by Michael's voice, "Hey Vee, it's us."

She opened the door to find a very professionally dressed Michael and Sara.

"Well aren't you two a sight for sore eyes," Aldo commented from behind her, taking the words out of her mouth.

Veronica hugged them both, and Michael asked, "How's Linc?"

"Good," she confirmed with as much conviction as she could, then added, "he's ready to get this over with."

"Aren't we all."

"You can say that again," Sara agreed as her eyes fell to the floor.

Veronica reached out and patted her arm, "You'll be fine, I don't bite."

"It's not you I'm worried about."

"That's what I said!" Aldo echoed in good humor, eliciting a laugh from everyone, then pointed to Veronica, "she better be easy on us anyways, it's the other guy that's gonna go for the jugular."

"Comforting," Sara replied with a sarcastic scoff, a smile still on her face though, which Veronica took as a good sign. Laughing always helped with the pre-show jitters.

She watched as Michael put a hand lightly on the small of Sara's back; she looked up, expectant, and he gave a small smirk and a nod of encouragement, something silent passing between them. Sara's face turned down as she tried to hide a smile, and Veronica just watched the whole interaction with awe. They already had their own language.

It hit her again how much she missed Lincoln.

That kind of knowing, the closeness, the steady hand, was something she hadn't realized how much she'd missed. After she and Lincoln had drifted apart, she'd had her share of potential boyfriend candidates; a date here, some flirting there, but nothing that she'd ever found to be worth chasing. There had been some lovely, perfectly nice men, but not the right one.

"Are you asking me out?"

"Yes I am."

His gravelly voice echoed in her mind and she could feel a blush rising in her cheeks. Curse her Irish skin. Now she was the one lowering her head to conceal her feelings, busying herself by turning around and flipping mindlessly through some papers in front of her.

She felt a presence behind her, then heard Sara's voice, "So, you feel ready?"

She turned slightly and saw that Michael and Aldo were conversing in the corner, Michael talking animatedly, which must mean he's talking about work. He didn't tend to talk with his hands unless he was explaining some engineering marvel that required descriptive hand gestures.

"Uh, I think so," she managed, trying to shake her very distracting thoughts of Lincoln, "I mean yes, yup I'm ready."

Sara was watching her closely, analyzing, "You sure?" she questioned, obviously not referring to the trial anymore.

Veronica sighed, letting her guard down since it was just the two of them, quietly, "Lincoln asked me out the other day."

Eyes widened, a grin, "Did he."

"He did," she paused, "and I said yes."

"Veronica, that's great!" she replied with enthusiasm, though hushed so as to not be overheard, "I mean, this is good, right? That's good news."

Grinning, "It is. Ugh, I just have to get through today to know that it's real…that it's actually a possibility. Dating again. That he'll be out of here soon."

Sara's hand found her back, "We'll do whatever we can to help. I'm a star witness, did you know that?"

Eyebrows raised in amusement, "Is that so?"

"Yup," nodding with conviction, "never tripped going up to the stand, never yelled at a judge, never flipped off the prosecutor…I'm the best there is," she finished with a wink.

"Ha! Glad to hear it," she bumped her shoulder against Sara's playfully as they settled down their giggles and went back over to where the guys were.

"What're you two laughing about?" Michael asked with a heavy dose of suspicion. Aldo's eyes were also narrowed, examining their faces, like a parent trying to determine the guilty child.

Veronica met Sara's eyes, and they both smirked, a silent vow to keep what had passed between them a secret, "Nothing you need to worry about," Veronica dismissed breezily.

The door opened, and they were informed that Lincoln would be brought in soon.

"Show time," Veronica announced, looking each of her companions in the eyes, feeling an overwhelming sense of trust and belonging. They could do this. Together.

XXXXXX

Aldo was sitting in the hot seat and sweating profusely enough for it to justify the name. Veronica and Lincoln were seated in the front, just off to his right, with Michael and Sara in the row behind them. He watched Lincoln, whose expression was about as telling as ever; his eyes flicked up at one point and met Aldo's but quickly diverted to the right. The diversion didn't appear to be out of hostility though, but more out of discomfort, not knowing how to look him in the eyes…not knowing what to think of him.

So instead, he met Veronica's, hers their usual cool green, as she gave a small smile and nod of assurance as she got up and approached him.

"Please state your name for the record," she asked.

"Aldo Burrows."

"Thank you, Mr. Burrows. You're here to assert that your son, Lincoln Burrows, is innocent of all charges, is that correct?"

"Yes," he replied, thinking this was easy so far.

"On what grounds?"

"On the grounds that the man he's accused of murdering, Terrence Steadman, is alive – living in Montana."

"And there is photographic evidence to back up that claim, correct?"

"That's correct."

"I'd like to submit these photos as evidence," she said as she approached the judge, taking several printed photos out of her manila file. The judge was a young woman, which had surprised Aldo, in a pleasant way. She was about the same height and build as Sara, but with shoulder-length blonde hair and square, dark framed glasses. Her intelligence and calm confidence were plain as day, and he was grateful to be beside a young professional with a brain; not a grumpy old main working out his last few years until retirement.

The Judge took the photos and looked them over, then projected them for the jury to see as Veronica asked him, "Can you please explain these photos?"

"Sure, uh," he craned his neck behind him and saw several photos of Steadman in his home, "I, along with Ms. Donovan, had reason to believe that Steadman had been making phone calls after his supposed murder. After we obtained a warrant for the phone records, we were able to trace the calls to a land line in Montana. So, we hopped on a flight and drove out to the address."

"And what did you find there?"

"Well, we found Terrence Steadman inside, alive, as seen in these photos."

"And did Terrence offer any explanation as to why he was hiding away in Montana?"

Nodding, "He told us that he was forced to make a deal; he would hide away and remain anonymous, his death would be faked, and the scandal involving his company, Ecofield, would die along with…well, supposedly along with him."

He glanced over at the jurors, trying to read their faces. They all looked back at him with calm interest, listening attentively like a classroom full of respectful students. He was grateful, and forced a slow breath and a moment of calm, allowing him to remain centered.

Stick to the facts, it'll all work out.

"Now this scandal," Veronica continued, "is a bit complicated, but could you summarize it for us?"

"Sure," he cleared his throat, trying to condense the intricate scandal into a few sentences, "Terrence Steadman is the brother of Vice President Caroline Reynolds. Caroline Reynolds is a," he struggled to find the right word, "member…of a group of multinational corporations with alliances that are collectively known as The Company. I was also a member of The Company. Her weight as Vice President behind a vote for a particular energy bill, on behalf of The Company, was crucial in helping them attain their goal, which is to control the economy."

He stole a quick glance at the judge, her face was attentive but showed no other emotion. Did she think he was crazy? Did the jurors? Either way, he kept the facts rolling, "Their desperation to control several aspects of the environment, as it pertains to the economy, led them into some illegal dealings with Ecofield."

"Illegal dealings that you had access to?" Veronica prompted.

Nodding, "Given my access to such information as a Company operative, I saw the ugly side of things, and decided to leak information about the scandal to the press. When word got out and they realized who leaked it, I had to go into hiding. What I didn't realize at the time though, was that in order to cover up the scandal, they were going to frame my son, Lincoln, for the murder of Terrence Steadman…a murder that didn't happen."

"So," Veronica boiled it down, "The Vice President and her brother were both involved in illegal dealings between Ecofield and The Company. You leaked this information to the press, and in order to punish you, The Company went after your son, having him put on death row for the supposed murder of Mr. Steadman?"

"That's correct."

"That's all your honor," Veronica turned and went back to her seat, sitting down next to Lincoln as the prosecutor stood up. He was a man of average height and build, with short brown hair and beady, dark brown eyes.

"Mr. Burrows," he began, and Aldo could already feel his heart rate quicken.

"If what you're saying is true, I have to ask," he gave a fake, sadistic laugh, "why didn't you come forward with this when your son was on trial the first time around?"

He gulped, eyes darting to Lincoln, seeing his face was silently asking the same thing. He knew that hesitation would come across as dishonesty, but he had to take a moment to gather his thoughts, to put into words a question that had tormented him since this whole thing had began.

"A couple of reasons," he started, "first, I didn't have the evidence to support my claims. I didn't know at that point that Steadman was alive – had no proof that he was. I also suspected that if I came forward, The Company would have me killed, leaving Lincoln in prison without a single person who could testify on his behalf."

Eyebrows raised, "You're suggesting that "The Company"," he used air quotes, signaling his disbelief, "would have you killed if you agreed to be a witness, defending Lincoln?"

"Yes."

"Ever heard of witness protection?"

He choked back a laugh. This guy really had no idea what The Company was capable of, "Ah, yes I've heard of it, but they are in no way equip to protect me from Company agents."

"Really? Why do you say that?"

Clearing his throat again, "The Company isn't just business men; they employee law enforcement personnel, government officials…the best of the best. If they put a hit out on me, I'd be dead before the end of the day, body disposed of, vanished without a trace. Heck, one of the witness protection agents assigned to me could be a Company agent too. They're everywhere, and they blend in."

"Yet you somehow managed to elude them?"

"I worked for them, so I know how they operate. That's the only reason I'm still here. If I'd agreed to witness protection or made any more of a spectacle of myself after leaking information to the press, I wouldn't be."

Nodding, "You told us that it was you and Ms. Donovan who went to the Steadman residence, correct?"

"That's correct."

"Was there not a third person present as well?" his eyes piercing, making him feel guilty for absolutely no reason.

"There was, but not until the following day."

"You stayed the night with Mr. Steadman?"

"We had to. Upon entering the house, we discovered it only opened from the outside. We were trapped and called a friend for help. She flew out and opened the door the next day, so we could leave."

"So, if the doors only open from the outside, that means you let yourself in…as Mr. Steadman couldn't have opened the door for you."

Slowly, sensing a trap, "That's right, we opened the door."

"With Mr. Steadman's permission?"

He glanced at Veronica, wishing for a lifeline. Steadman had been upstairs doing whatever the heck he did all day when they'd gotten there, but Steadman didn't know they were there until they were inside. That wasn't exactly, "Permission."

Stick to the facts.

"Ah, not exactly," he decided on, "we knocked and rang the doorbell, not getting a response. Ms. Donovan tried opening the door and found it unlocked. We went inside and Steadman came downstairs once we were in."

"So, you illegally entered his residence?"

"Objection," Veronica shot up from her seat.

"Overruled," the judge replied, "but get to your point."

The prosecutor nodded, "What you're telling me is that you illegally entered his residence, and took photos of him, probably without his consent, and are submitting those photos as your primary piece of evidence?"

"Objection," Veronica said again, and he could see the heat rising in her cheeks.

"Moving on," the prosecutor replied, changing the subject, "you said that a friend flew to Montana to let you out."

"That's right."

"And that friend is seated behind me today, correct? Please point her out for everyone."

"Yes, Sara Tancredi," he nodded in her direction, "was the one who flew out to help us."

XXXXXXX

Sara walked carefully up to take the stand, keenly aware that you could've heard a pin drop as she took her seat.

The prosecutor stood before her. She didn't like the looks of him any more from the front than she had sitting behind him; his eyes were really unsettling.

"Please state your name."

"Sara Tancredi."

"What do you do for a living, Ms. Tancredi?"

"I'm the physician at Fox River State Penitentiary."

"The same prison where Lincoln Burrows is being held."

"That's correct."

"And how did you become involved in this case?"

"Lincoln is a patient of mine, and as their physician it's part of my job to advocate for them."

Eyes narrowed dramatically, "Is it?"

Unwavering, "To me it is."

After a moment, "How did you become aware that there were any possible issues with his case?"

"His brother, Michael Scofield, was also a patient of mine. He informed me that Lincoln's lawyer was looking into his case again and might need some help, so I looked her up and offered my assistance."

He paused a moment, obviously trying to make her uncomfortable. She was determined to not grant him his wish.

"How would you be able to offer assistance? I mean…you're not a lawyer," his smirk was condescending, it said "You're not a lawyer, you're just a doctor."

"I wasn't sure at the time," she replied honestly, "but I wanted to hear what evidence she had."

"Your ability to help with this case wouldn't have anything to do with your father would it? Being the daughter of the Governor certainly gives you some pull when it comes to getting inmates off death row."

There it is, she thought. When would she ever be able to step out of his shadow?

Flatly, "My father has nothing to do with this case."

"But you did visit him, asking for his assistance, right?"

"I did," she replied, forcing herself to remain un-rattled, "and he dismissed me, offering no assistance whatsoever."

"Is that a common occurrence, your father "dismissing" you?"

Her eyebrows shot up, was he really trying to make this about daddy issues?

"Objection," Veronica shouted with a voice thick with disdain. Sara couldn't help a small smile, grateful for her friend seeing exactly what this snake of a man was trying to imply, just as she had.

"Move on," the judge concurred, forcing him to change the subject.

"You mentioned that Michael Scofield was the reason you became aware of this case."

"Correct."

"What's your relationship to him?"

There it is again, she thought. All he's been doing is trying to undermine her credibility with, "You're just here because you're the governor's daughter," or, "You're just doing this for your boyfriend."

She huffed inaudibly, just enough to make herself feel better before replying, "He's my boyfriend."

"So, he was an inmate, and your patient, and now he's your boyfriend? Do you make a habit of dating your patients?"

"Objection!" Veronica yelled again.

"No further questions your honor," he concluded, taking his seat.

Sara took a beat to center herself; she'd been fidgeting with the bottom hem of her jacket the entire time without even realizing it, but thankfully the jury couldn't see behind the wooden stand. She set her hands flat on top of her legs, smoothing them and hoping they wouldn't get a mind of their own and start fidgeting again.

She caught Michael's eye, his gaze that icy one that he got when the wheels were spinning below the surface…along with a smoldering anger. He obviously didn't like the prosecutor either, which oddly comforted her. She couldn't wait to commiserate with everyone about their unfortunate adversary later.

Veronica approached her now, with a look of calm determination, "Ms. Tancredi, you're here for one reason today, and that is to testify that you saw Terrence Steadman alive in his home on the day these photographs were taken, is that a true statement?"

With confidence, "It is."

Nodding, "Let's talk about The Company for a moment," she addressed the jurors now, "I realize this is a lot to take in, so let's put a more personal spin on it," facing Sara, "do you have any first hand experience dealing with Company agents."

She stifled the flashbacks, "Yes I do."

Her voice a bit softer, "Could you share them with us?"

XXXXXX

"Oh my God what is WITH that guy?" Veronica huffed as they all shuffled into the room they'd started the day in. It was lunch time for everyone, and they were all ready for a break; even the jurors were starting to get that glazed-over look in their eyes. Coffee and sandwiches were on the table for them now too, and Veronica greedily grabbed a cup, filled it to the brim and grabbed the sandwich closest to her, not even caring what kind it was.

"He sounded desperate to me," Michael chimed in as he grabbed a plate, "like his case doesn't hold any water, so he's trying to make the jury doubt everyone's credibility."

"Right," Sara rolled her eyes as she poured herself some coffee, "like my daddy issues, that was fun."

"I'm so sorry about that," Veronica offered in a tired tone, "I couldn't object fast enough to that one."

Sara grinned, obviously taking the jab at her strained relationship with her dad well, "Thank you for coming to my rescue."

That made her smile too, "Any time, God I'll "object" that little punk into next Tuesday."

Aldo was being awfully quiet, she realized, and saw him standing off to the corner, "How're you holding up?" she asked, pulling him out of his daze.

"What? Oh, I'm fine," he waved a hand, "just didn't realize how much of a lunatic I sound like, talking about The Company to a room full of people who didn't know they existed."

"It's a lot to take in," Sara agreed, stirring cream into her coffee, "but I think we kept it simple enough to be believable. If we told them the whole story…everything The Company has done…that'd be different."

"True," Aldo agreed.

Lincoln was with them now, along with a guard stationed just inside the door. She watched with amusement as he grabbed three sandwiches, not even bothering with a plate. Sara was watching him too, and caught Veronica's eye, the two of them grinned and shook their heads.

"Little hungry there?" Veronica teased him.

A smirk, "Haven't had real food in ages, I'm getting it while I can."

"Can't say I blame you," she replied, not even wanting to know what it was like to live off of prison food, "but hopefully you'll be able to have all the real food you want soon."

"Can't happen soon enough," he agreed, taking a bite.

They all chit-chatted, stretched, walked around the room, sat down, then stood up again, unable to keep the nerves at bay once lunch was eaten. It was an hour break, which was merciful, but the anticipation started growing about half way through that time, and she could feel it in the room.

She wanted to look through her notes some more – willed herself to open the file but she just couldn't do it. The trial itself was draining enough, so any last minute cramming would end up doing more harm than good, muddling her thoughts and sending her mind into information overload.

When it was time to head back into court, she offered a brief pep talk as she stood, blocking the door before they could all barge past, "Not long now you guys, just don't let him rattle you – you're all doing great at that by the way, and always - ?" she gestured openly, waiting for them to complete the thought.

In unison with childlike mockery, "Stick to the facts."

"That's right," she agreed with exaggerated enthusiasm, "let's finish this."


	34. Chapter 34

A/N: Sorry for the long delay! I got COVID and have been completely useless for the past couple of weeks. I decided to "skip" the rest of the trial and jump ahead to after it was over. I don't know...just wasn't feeling like writing a "big reveal" of the jury reading the verdict...we've all seen that enough times on T.V. ;) Anyways, hope you enjoy this next chapter!

XXXXXXX

"So, how does it feel?" Veronica asked, looking over the soft glow of the tea-light candle in the center of the table.

Lincoln took a sip of his amber colored drink on the rocks and sighed, leaned back in his chair, looking more relaxed than she'd seen him in a long time, "Feels good. Strange…like this is all just a dream I'm gonna wake up from."

"It better not be," she teased, "all that effort to get you out of there."

He smirked, then turned more serious, "I can't ever repay you for what you did…what all of you did, but I'm gonna try."

Smiling softly, "You're alive, and you're free. That's pretty much all I care about right now," she reached carefully between the perfectly set place in front of her and reached for him. His large hand wrapped warmly around hers and she exhaled heavily.

The trial had lasted a long time, given the complexity of the whole thing. When the jury had finally read their verdict, exonerating him of all of his crimes, she'd been so exhausted and hyped up on caffeine that she was convinced she'd hallucinated it. If not for Michael and Sara, along with Aldo beside her, hugging her and grinning, she still might not believe it. Ever since he was released, she was still waiting for the blare of an alarm clock to jolt her from the fantasy, the elusive happy ending she'd been working towards for so long.

"What's on your mind?" Lincoln asked with furrowed brows.

Shaking her head, "Nothing it just, I guess it still feels like a dream to me too."

She looked around her; the blue glow from behind the bar that was just a few tables away, waiters in black pants and crisp white shirts floating from table to table, not to mention the huge window next to them exposing the orange and pink sunset over the vast expanse of Lake Michigan.

She felt the snugness of the emerald green, lace dress she'd chosen to wear and realized how nice it was to feel "pretty" for a night.

Sure, it felt a little silly getting all dressed up for a man who was already like family, and someone she'd been with before, but the look on his face when she'd arrived at the restaurant was enough to have her quit all of that second guessing.

After his release, she'd insisted that they make good on Lincoln's offer for a night out as soon as possible, not wanting to waste another minute assuming that time together would always be there, since they'd both experienced first-hand how misleading that idea could be.

He didn't have a car, and she'd offered to pick him up, which he had flat out refused in his blunt way, insisting that he meet her there instead. At the time, she didn't really care what his reasoning was, so she'd shrugged and went along with it. After some time at home to get ready, she drove to the address he'd given her, and had found him standing outside the doorway waiting for her. His hand had found the small of her back, the warmth of it coursing through the fabric of her dress and finding her skin. She'd leaned into it slightly, comforted by the pressure and warmth, and they walked in together. A young, blonde hostess took them to a table right by the window, overlooking the lake. The table had a reservation card with both of their names, and candles already flickering in the center. It really did feel like a dream.

Lincoln replied, "Right now, I don't care if it's a dream or not."

Head tilting, "Why's that?"

He nodded in the direction behind her. She turned around and saw the waitress coming over with their food.

Grinning, "Oh, because dream or not, you finally get to eat a burger and fries?"

"Yup."

The waitress set their plates before them, asked if they needed anything, and when they both declined, left them to enjoy their meal.

"So," Veronica asked, stealing a fry from his plate, "what's next?"

"Dessert."

"You know what I mean."

He sighed, "For me…I guess the first thing I need to do is find a job. Not sure who'll hire me though."

"Your record should be clear now," she pointed out.

"Yea but my face being all over the news can't be erased. People won't just forget about me any time soon…I'll have to find someone who doesn't mind that kinda thing."

She shrugged and sipped her wine, enjoying the warm flush it gave her cheeks,"I'm sure there's someone out there who's willing to give you a chance."

"I guess," he agreed, "and as far as," he pointed between the two of them, "us…can we just take it a day at a time?"

Smiling softly, "I'd like that."

With everything that had happened, looking more than a day ahead seemed almost gluttonous. Today was all anyone had for sure, and she didn't see why she couldn't just spend each day in and day out with Lincoln, not worrying about the future beyond that. She'd lived without him for a while and she'd managed just fine; found satisfaction with her job and coasted through living alone with ease, but life was better with him in it. He was alive and with her- here and now, and that was enough.

XXXXXXX

Sara approached Michael from behind. He was seated on the couch with the laptop open and glowing it's bright blue light – the only light left in the living room. It was late; Sara had showered and changed into something more comfortable after the trial, the hot water relaxing her and releasing the tension in her feet from a long day of wearing heels.

He was working on Scylla and she knew he wanted to get it done as soon as possible, but it was late, and he needed to sleep at some point.

She could see the line of tension running along his shoulders as she put both hands on them. He jumped slightly.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," she said softly as she planted a kiss on top of his head.

"T's ok," he mumbled, eyes still glued to the screen.

"Think it's time for you to get some sleep?"

"Uh…" his voice trailed off.

"Michael," more sternly now.

"What?"

"You need sleep, you can work on this more tomorrow," she started massaging his shoulders, and that finally seemed to get through to his conscious mind. He dropped his head, letting it fall forward and relaxed a little, sighing, finally seeming to feel the weight of the day.

"Come on," she insisted.

"Alright," he finally agreed, saving a few things and closing the laptop.

She took his hand and led him to bed, not wanting him to change his mind or get side tracked, insisting that he finish, "just one more thing," before retiring to sleep.

He started unbuttoning his shirt, the same one he'd worn to the trial, staring off into space.

"How're you holding up?" she asked as she sat down on the bed. It had been a taxing day to say the least. Lincoln was free, and she knew he was relieved about that, but there was obviously still a lot on his mind.

"He's free," he answered, "finally."

"But?" she prompted as she slid under the covers.

He tossed his shirt aside and shrugged, "But I'm not yet. And you still aren't safe."

She rolled onto her side to face him, only wincing slightly at the bruises still on her ribs. He sat down on his side of the bed with his back against the pillows, his eyes meeting hers, and she saw the worry in them.

"You really think they'd still come after me?"

"Of course they would. Lincoln's freedom has nothing to do with our situation. The General still wants me working for them forever, and you're my weak spot. They know that."

Quietly, with determination, "I'm still going to work tomorrow."

His eyes locked onto hers, challenging, and then he sighed in defeat, "Ok, but just-"

"-be safe. I know. I'll check in with you once I get there." She knew their conversation was entering dangerous territory; it scared him. Hell, it scared her – the possibility of being attacked again, or worse. But the matter was settled, and she was going to work tomorrow.

Wanting to change the subject and get back to safer ground, she asked, "Any progress on Scylla?"

He slid down and under the covers now, and she nestled in beside him, laying her head on his chest.

"I'm almost done. Another day or so…" his voice trailed off.

Sadly, "And then you'll go back to Miami?"

"I have to meet her in person."

Sara nodded in understanding, "When do you think you'll fly out?"

His fingers starting running through her hair absentmindedly and she closed her eyes, relaxing into him, "I was thinking maybe…tomorrow?"

Her heart sank and she snuggled deeper against him, "That soon?"

"If I work on the plane and the rest of the night in Miami," he paused to gather his thoughts, "I could potentially finish it tomorrow and then meet Christina the next day."

She let that reality sink in, thinking about going to work and coming home to an empty apartment. It didn't take long before her mind lurched even further ahead, wanting to know what would happen after his dealings were done.

She asked simply, "And then?"

After a moment, "And then you'd be safe, and I can come back here…if that's what you want."

She tried not to let her mind linger on the implied murder of the General, and focus instead on the idea of Michael being back here in her arms in just a few days. She scooted up a bit and kissed his cheek as her reply.

They lay in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.

"What are you going to do after all this?" she asked.

"Like for work?"

"Yea."

"Well, I'll have the money from Scylla to get us through while I find something."

"Oh my God," she remembered with a nervous laugh, "yea, I think millions of dollars will get us through until you find something."

He chuckled now, "You don't have to work if you don't want to. We could buy a house, invest some of it…"

Shaking her head, "No, I still want to work at Fox River."

She could still feel him smiling.

"What?" she asked with a laugh.

"Millions of dollars and you still want to be a prison doctor."

She sat up and propped herself on her elbows, a few loose strands of hair framing her face, "I want to help," she said with conviction, "I can't sit at home and do nothing while people out there aren't getting the medical care they deserve. It should be a basic human right but the way most inmates are treated I just-"

He cut her off with a kiss, surprising her. Normally when she talked about work and human rights people rolled their eyes or brushed her off. Getting a kiss for it was new.

"I love you," he said once he pulled away.

Still surprised, "I love you too."

After taking a second to regain her footing, she asked, "What about you? Millions of dollars and you still want to work?"

He shrugged, "Sure, but my desire to work is mostly because I'd be bored out of my mind if I didn't."

She chuckled, "That's true."

"Hey," he feigned offense.

"What? You said it, not me," she replied playfully.

With a smile, "You didn't have to agree so fast."

Shrugging, "The whole time you've been here you've either been working, sleeping, or trying to watch a movie and failing miserably."

"Failing?"

"Your mind is always halfway somewhere else."

After a moment, "I'm sorry about that."

"No," shaking her head, "no, I didn't mean it like that I just," she sighed, "I'm glad it'll be over soon."

He met her eyes, "Me too."

XXXXXX

Michael woke up to the sound of Sara's alarm. She had to leave for work and he was glad to be woken up anyways, it would give him more time to work before his flight. He hated leaving already…hated leaving her at all, but his whole mindset was "sooner started, sooner finished." He wanted to get Scylla to Christina and move on with his life.

Lincoln was free; that had been the name of the game for so long. Everything else – Scylla, The General, the deals with Christina, those all came from a place of damage control. He'd needed the life-saving surgery and didn't regret his decision, but the position he was in now…his heart wasn't in it. Sure, the office in Miami was desirable, the apartment was comfortable, but his place was here with Sara, and close to Lincoln. And to Veronica. He smiled, remembering the not-so-subtle way that Veronica had looked at Lincoln when they'd left Fox River. He hoped they worked it out…she was good for him.

Sara was in the shower so he went out to the kitchen and started making coffee for them both. He grabbed his laptop from by the couch and set it on the dining table, plugging it in so it would be good and charged for a solid day of working. He poured a mug for them both and sat down, knowing he couldn't drag his feet any longer and needed to book a flight. With Sara going to work in an hour, he saw no need to stay any longer than necessary, and booked a flight that left around noon. He'd be in Miami a few hours later and have some time in the evening to wrap everything up with Scylla.

He also had to call Christina. He heard the shower turn off and knew he still had a few minutes before Sara would be in the kitchen, but he decided that booking a flight was enough productivity for the moment. He'd call Christina later. For now, he wanted to enjoy the sunrise through the kitchen window, a hot cup of coffee, and every minute he could get with Sara before she had to leave.

As if on cue, he heard footsteps behind him, "G'morning," she greeted, finding the mug for her on the counter and taking a sip.

He wanted to reply, but was hit by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. She leaned back against the counter, her gray slacks, purple shirt, her hair pinned back halfway up. The clean, professional look…all she was missing was the white coat. All of his memories from Fox River came flooding back, every moment he'd spent in the infirmary. It was surreal seeing her before him, Dr. Sara Tancredi, but in her apartment, with him as a free man beside her.

She tilted her head, "You ok?"

"Yea," he snapped out of it, "yea I'm fine. I uh, I booked a flight for noon."

She nodded and lowered her head, obviously not excited by this piece of information.

Softly, "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"I know…just be careful, ok?"

He met her eyes, conveying as much seriousness as he could, "You too."

"I will," she glanced at the clock on the stove, "and I gotta go."

He nodded.

"I'll let you know when I get to work."

"Thank you."

She crossed the kitchen and he stood up, wrapping his arms around her, hating goodbyes. She rested her face against his chest, the perfect fit, and they stood there for a long while, knowing they'd see each other soon but still not wanting to let go. She sighed against him and turned her head up to face him. He kissed her softly, committing it all to memory; the feel of her under his hands, the clean smell of her hair, the warmth of her against him. God help him…it was going to be a rough few days without her.

She pulled back and let her brown eyes find their way to his, "You'll come back as soon as you can, right?"

He tried to find his thoughts again, rein them in from the cloud they were on. If she thought he'd spend any more time in Miami than he had to, she was crazy.

"Oh yea," he managed, "I'll be back before you know it."

XXXXXXX

Aldo sat on the balcony of the nicest hotel room he'd stayed at in years. He'd checked in with his I.D. He'd used a credit card. For the first time in forever he didn't have to hide who he was and only stay at cash only motels.

A knock at the door had him getting up, accepting the tray of breakfast and coffee from the nice young woman at the door. He walked back to the balcony and set it down on the tiny table that was situated between two chairs.

He reveled in the moment, pouring coffee into the small white mug and adding a packet of cream and sugar. The fruit was fresh and looked delicious, the croissants flaky and glistening with butter. He was grateful; but he felt like something was missing.

His mind went back to the mornings at Veronica's place; they'd chat and eat together. The mornings that Sara joined them were extra special, another person to talk to, livening the place up even more. He'd been living on the run, alone, for so long that he'd almost forgotten what it was like to share a living space with another person. He missed it already, but didn't know how to begin making his way into the lives of his sons.

He sipped the coffee, realizing with a small sense of pride that he'd already started. Michael had talked to him at the trial. Lincoln had allowed him to help, even seemed grateful when he was released…in a Lincoln sort of way. Lincoln had met his eyes and nodded. That was all the affirmation he needed to know that Lincoln was grateful. It may not have been a, "we're even now,"nod, but it was a start.

His phone buzzed on the table and he felt a jolt of excitement, hoping it was one of them reaching out to him, but the caller I.D. revealed that it was Gretchen.

He set down his mug, "Hello?"

"Congratulations," she purred, "I saw the news, Lincoln is a free man."

"He is," Aldo confirmed, "but I'm guessing that's not why you called."

"Scylla," she replied simply, "why do I feel like I'm not being kept in the loop anymore?"

"Because it's out of my hands now."

Slowly, "What?"

"Michael is finishing it on his own…selling it to Christina. It's not what I wanted either, but he's made his choice. I can't change his mind on this."

"No," she said firmly, "Christina!? He cannot sell it to her."

Cautiously, "Why?"

Exasperated, "She's worse than Krantz! I don't know what she's planning, but with the power that Scylla will give her…Aldo, please tell me this is a joke."

Wary now, "It's not. But Michael won't listen to me. Krantz hurt Sara, and I-"

"-Sara?"

"His girlfriend."

He could practically hear the eye roll, "That's what this is about? The general slaps around his girlfriend a little so he sells Scylla to the highest bidder so that what, the General will stop coming after her? He'll just come after her even harder-"

"-not if Krantz is dead."

Silence. Then after a moment, "Christina? She's killing him after she gets Scylla?"

"That is the deal that was made, yes. And for the record, Sara ended up in the hospital. He has a right to be concerned."

More silence, contemplating, "This is bad."

"It's not my first choice either, but it's what's happening."

"No, this is bad," she emphasized, "The General is a business man. He's greedy, cold and calculating, but his interest is controlling the economy, of gaining power and money and keeping The Company going. He takes pride in employing the finest minds in the world, and putting them to work."

"What's your point?"

"Christina doesn't give a damn about The Company. She's manipulative and self-centered. She does whatever is in her best interest. I hate to say it…never thought I would," she paused, "but I'd rather have Krantz in charge."

That gave Aldo pause. He knew that Gretchen's distaste for Krantz was bone deep and unrelenting. For her to say that Krantz still won out over Christina despite that distaste held some real weight as far as he was concerned.

"Look," she continued, "can you at least promise me that you'll tell Michael?"

After a moment, rubbing his eyes, "Yea, yea I'll tell him what you said. But like I said, I can't guarantee anything. He can be pretty stubborn."

"I gathered that. Let me know if he needs more convincing- I'll talk to him myself if you want."

"Will do," he clicked his phone shut. The breakfast in front of him suddenly didn't look appealing.

Who was he to tell Michael what to do? He knew how it would look; the ex-husband throwing dirt on the ex-wife. Christina was his mom- a mom who, despite leaving them for so many years, had saved his life and held up her end of every deal she'd made with him so far.

She's manipulative and self-centered. Gretchen's words replayed in his mind.

That's how he remembered her too, but what did Michael remember about Christina? Baking cookies and playing kickball? Happy Christmases and birthdays together? Or was it a less happy picture in his mind that he'd chosen to overlook, allowing her the chance to re-enter his life in a positive light. If that was the case, maybe Aldo had a chance too…if Michael offered a second chance to one parent, he'd certainly do the same for the other…right?

He gulped his coffee and set the mug down on the tray, knowing that his mind was starting to spiral and it wouldn't help anything. He had to call Michael and offer Gretchen's insight. What he chose to do with that information – well, it was his choice.

XXXXXX

Sara got to her car, which was parked outside her apartment, and opened the door. Just knowing that Michael would be gone when she got back from work had a sort of emptiness seeping into her day, and she didn't like that for a couple of reasons. The first was obvious; she was going to miss him while he was away. The second was her stubborn reluctance to let go of her independence. She'd been single and living on her own for years and now she couldn't stand a few days alone?

A deep breath and a shake of her head helped get herself into doctor mode as she got behind the wheel and pulled away from her apartment. She allowed her mind to wander ahead and towards work, thinking about everything that might be waiting for her when she got back. She welcomed the idea of a busy day, knowing that it would keep her mind off of everything else and maybe even keep her there late. She'd come home after dark, eat a quick meal and go to bed, too exhausted to do anything else. That was the hope anyways.

She enjoyed the familiar route into work. With a spark of excitement, she realized she could stop by her favorite coffee spot on her way in, but would that expose her to unnecessary risk? Did The Company know about her favorite place? She knew what Michael would say…but the coffee was so good. She could practically feel it warming her belly. She sighed and made the responsible decision of waiting for the day when Scylla was done and Krantz was gone. Then she could stop there every day for a week if she wanted to.

During the rest of her drive in, she caught herself gazing into the rearview mirror a few more times than normal. It was tough to shake the feeling that someone might be after her.

She pulled up to Fox River and parked in her usual spot.

"Morning doc," the guard at the gate greeted with a nod of his head.

"Morning," she replied with a smile, honestly happy to be back.

Her hand plunged into her bag and found her phone, dragging it out to text Michael, "Here safe."

"Parked or inside?" he replied in a second.

She shook her head, but smiled, "Parked and walking in now."

"Ok. Hope it's a good first day back."

"Thanks. Have a safe flight. Let me know when you land."

"I will."

Satisfied that they'd both been checked up on, she pulled open the door and walked down the familiar maze of white hallways to the infirmary.

"Sara!" she heard in a familiar voice.

"Katie! Hey, how are you?"

"Beyond glad to have you back," she replied, shaking her head, "these cons don't know how lucky they are to have you. Neither did I," she replied with a stressed laugh.

"How've things been going?"

"Organized chaos," she answered, falling into step beside Sara.

"Any serious injuries or conditions that I can't handle here…they're being sent to a nearby hospital."

"Which one?"

Her eyebrows raised, prompting Sara to answer her own question.

"Ah…that hospital."

"You got it," she confirmed.

There were a couple of hospitals nearby, and one was notoriously terrible. She wasn't surprised that they'd sent the inmates there, but she certainly wasn't looking forward to cleaning up the mess that the incompetent doctors had left for her. Maybe incompetent wasn't the right word…indifferent was more accurate. They didn't seem to care much about their work, which made her work twice as tough – going over everything that had already been done to double check it all.

They rounded the corner and she opened her office door, seeing a stack of files on her desk that was laughably high, threatening to fall over at any moment.

She looked at Katie with a smile and gestured to it, "Really?"

Katie shrugged and laughed, "And that's what's left after I stayed late last night trying to get rid of some of it."

Sighing, "Well, I really appreciate it."

"It's no problem-"

"-No," she cut her off, "seriously. I really appreciate you helping out so much while I've been gone."

Katie met her eyes and nodded, knowing that she meant it.

"As penance," Sara continued, "I won't leave until every piece of paperwork is off my desk."

That earned a laugh, "So in other words, you'll be eating take-out in here for dinner for the next week?"

After a moment of contemplation, "Pretty much."

Yelling and footsteps in the hallway got both of their attention.

"We need help out here!" a guard yelled as they rounded the corner, two guards carrying an injured inmate, his leg covered in blood and bent at a horrible angle.

Her hopes confirmed; she was going to be here a while.


End file.
